


must make good choices for a living

by 01nm



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Peter Parker, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Other, Past Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Roommates, Secret Identity, Unreliable Narrator, surprise Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/01nm/pseuds/01nm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After May's sudden and mysterious death, Peter finds himself avoiding an overdue college life and barely making enough money to live in one spot for long. When he comes across an opportunity to share a space with someone called Wade Wilson, he simply cannot refuse the cheap price and prime location. </p><p>And then that person turns out to be <em>Deadpool</em> of all people. And then Peter finds his double life getting that much more complicated. And then a lot of things start making painful sense about the merc. And then, and then...</p><p>And then 10,000 pancakes. </p><p>Lord love a duck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the scandal on walnut lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Tense/awkward situations, violence, some gore and body horror (Deadpool), flashbacks, anxiety, panic attacks, and shutdowns imminent (Peter.)

 

Peter's back hits a stack of crates, his mind barely registering the loud collapse of the flimsy wood that couldn't support his weight for more than a second. His breath comes out in heavy pants that sends dizzying amounts of oxygen to his brain, fueling the adrenaline and rage while dampening the warning strain on his body.

 

“And _down_ goes the _spiiii-der!”_ Deadpool cheers nastily from atop a metal contraption, throwing his arms into a broad X shape near his pelvis in a crude sign. His face is twisted with similarly unkind emotions, his voice following suit in a throaty, angry pitch that makes a mockery of his usual manic tone. “For being a fussy little _bitch_ and sticking its _nose_ where it – “

 

With a shout of climbing frustration, Peter uses his webs to attach to opposite metal towers, launching himself like a rocket out of the pile of wood, startling a smack-talking Deadpool with an unforgivable pair of flat-footed heels to the face.

 

Deadpool makes a grunting noise and goes down hard, colliding with the stone cold floor of the warehouse with a meaty _thump,_ Spider-Man soon following and pinning the red-and-black suited mercenary into place.

 

“You should've let me handle it!” Spider-Man practically yells into the downed person's masked face. “I know that it wasn't a job for you – Iron Man told me you had no reason to be - !”

 

“And you listen to everything that – _hrrk_ – that pot of digested bombs says?” Deadpool chokes, as if attempting to hum thoughtfully. “You? A fanboy? Taking _his_ word? Over _mine?_ Can you hear the question marks???”

 

Peter's heart beats wildly with thrumming emotions as he decks Deadpool right across the face, slinging their head painfully to the side even as they give a short, wet laugh. “I had everything under control, and - !”

 

 _“You were barely even_ alive _when I got there!”_ Deadpool fires back, momentarily stunning Peter into stillness with their serious and loud tone. “You don't even fully understand what she _did - “_ One of their arms gets loose, waving distractedly near their head, and Peter has to stretch far and arch over their body like a furious hyena in order to capture it again. “ - but here _you_ are, lecturing _me_ about _morals. Again!”_

Peter's about to defend himself with an admittedly petulant _“I didn't ask you for help!”_ that provides absolutely nothing substantial to the rage fueled conversation, but Deadpool's other hand struggles free and snakes its way down his side to his stomach, pressing. While being physically abhorrent in its own right, that's not what's making his senses scream at him to _move - !_

 

He only partway dodges a swipe of a large knife to his chest, his suit tearing as some of his blood is slung across the shiny dark gray floor seconds after he's already landed, skidding in his haste to begin trading glancing blows.

 

Next to a highly trained mercenary, however, he looks like he belongs in a circus as a regretful runaway.

 

The two dance like this for a fueled moment in time, footwork slipping but as steady as they can get it as they jab and dodge, Deadpool having home advantage with the threat of a forearm-length knife, but Spider-Man executing sloppy flips and kicks to keep it interesting.

 

Finally, Deadpool slips up, eventually being ousted by Peter's honed spider-senses. With a growl, he gets his knife arm captured by an equally irate Spider-Man, body pulled taut and slightly off the floor with the awkward position.

 

“I've had _enough!”_ In a move that Peter would normally never even think of executing, he uses a large portion of his enhanced strength to cleanly snap the mercenary's arm, breaking the bone inside.

 

Instead of reacting even somewhat mildly shocked at the broken limb, Deadpool only uses the newfound erasure of bodily parameters to clobber Spider-Man on the head with the same arm, snapping the hero's vision to the side and allowing him to firmly boot the smaller adversary several meters away.

 

“You know,” Deadpool announces between rapid panting, his arm no doubt mending itself as he spoke, but not without the immense pain of it. “Despite what you and _yew-ess-ayh_ flag underwear so _asshole_ -ishly assume, I do have _some_ rules. Like hurting kids and animals and finishing all the food on your plate and stuff.” Then he pretends to casually cock his head to the side and ponder his statement. “Actually, I've had some traumatizing experiences with kittens. Devilish little fuckers. I take that animal thing back.”

 

“Riva Upp was none of your concern!” Spider-Man forcefully reminds Deadpool. The two are at a tension filled standstill, Peter covertly attempting to clutch at his side to support his ribs while Deadpool lets the broken arm swing free in a macabre show of disregard for their own body. “She wasn't your target; you were out of line killing her like that. Now,” he cracks his knuckles as a new wave of anger overcomes him, “you should face the consequences for so stupidly tossing aside the rightful justice - “

 

“Oh, bravo,” Deadpool interrupts with a head movement that suggests an eye roll. He tries to clap his hands, but his injury makes that near impossible, so his left arm only lolls unnervingly about in the air. “Like I haven't heard this exact same conversation before with, uh, _six other people._ Tell me, spaghetti-man: are you secretly a clone of America's Most Patriotic _Buzzkills?”_

 

“Deadpool...” Spider-Man growls, leaning forward with his fist brought up like a prayer. “This is the last straw – you know that. When the Avengers get their hands on you - “

 

The unmistakable sound of Iron Man's energy wrought suit flying closer and closer to their location is heard by both parties. Something in the air shifts from emotion fraught with danger to the buzz of reluctant weariness.

 

“Listen,” Deadpool says as he snaps his broken arm back into place, curling his fingers several times and visually admiring the now healed appendage. “That thing I said? About rules? Yea, one of them was about _murdering innocent old ladies_ , too.” He points one finger at an adrenalin-high trembling Spider-Man. “Guess what that _space-and-time rending cheesedick_ was guilty for, ya' hopper.”

 

Reeling with the new information, but still unwilling to concede so easily, Peter takes one step forward -

 

Only to have a gun be pointed at his face.

 

Yikes.

 

“I don't see how you struggled with her for so long,” Deadpool remarks almost flippantly, entirely offensively, gun unwavering. “IKEA turned out to be a whole lotta nothing when she got a _sniper bullet_ to the b - “

_“Deadpool!”_

 

Iron Man, somewhat unnecessarily dramatically, comes crashing through one grimy window. His fist is aimed directly into a hanging light, sending the heavy – now broken – light fixture down onto Deadpool's head.

 

Unfortunately (if you ask Peter's current opinion), it never hits its mark. Instead, Deadpool sashays out of the way in time, an unhinged laugh coming from his throat.

 

“Man – you gotta love those out-of-context old cartoons!” The merc yells without context himself, as per usual.

 

Spider-Man, sans a gun pointed in his face, begins moving forward with the intent of helping Iron Man finally, _finally,_ after an entire week of hunting, accost Deadpool, when a hand claps down on his shoulder. The only reason he doesn't immediately jump to the offense is because of the unrestrained strength keeping him immobile.

 

Captain America stands behind him.

 

“It's off,” the super-soldier tells him simply.

 

“W-what?” Peter gets out, equally as stilted. He takes direct notice of how neither Iron Man nor Deadpool are currently coming to blows, and his mind clotheslines itself.

 

_What?_

 

“Change of plans, or,” Iron Man pipes up, now closer to Spider-Man than Deadpool. In fact, the two Avengers look more like their flanking the humanoid arachnid, instead of the _wanted criminal_ oh, _right over there._ “More like, change of information. SHIELD lied. Big fucking surprise. Turns out that they did technically... _hire,_ Deadpool to go after Riva Upp. They said they'd 'take full responsibility' for his 'misinterpretation of instruction.'”

 

Peter is reminded, dreadfully, of why he resists all attempts of unmasking himself, no matter what the Avengers or SHIELD offers him.

 

“Of course...” He says, softly, for a lack of better things to say. Of course SHIELD would lie. Of course he'd be sent of a wild goose chase. Of course it'd be the Avengers who would have to 'subdue' him.

 

Of course.

 

Spider-Man shakes Captain America's lingering arm off, purposefully turning his face away from where Deadpool still stagnates in the middle of the abandoned warehouse.

 

“So...” Spider-Man attempts to prompt, the heavy stares of the two Avengers gaining on his tired nerves. Right about now, he would normally be asking – no, _demanding_ that they explain every single detail. Instead, he is just... so tired. _So tired._ It's only been a month since...

 

“There's something else... that you should know,” Captain America informs with a certain amount of detectable hesitation. And if Peter knows anything about the big C.A., it's that he will sometimes try to unnecessarily sugarcoat things, for 'other people's benefit' and what not. Especially with Spider-Man.

 

Peter's never been their favorite vigilante, but he is their favorite 'kid' to keep out of the loop.

 

Thankfully, Iron Man barges in, as he is prone to doing.

 

“There was a compromise,” the man in the iron machine tells Peter. “They're not 100% positive yet, but... The reason they called in Deadpool was because it had something to do with Spider-Man's safety.”

 

A pause in Peter's heart. It's not as big as it was when...

 

“Your identity, kid.”

 

...when Aunt May was alive.

 

Peter sucks in a breath. His ribs twinge, his whole body reminding him of every deeply seated injury that could have killed him, a week ago, in his violent meeting with Riva Upp. Somehow, the wounds he's received from Deadpool and lack of self-care this week barely hit the threshold of pain like the others do.

 

His arms drop from his ribs and hang coldly next to his bending body as the wind and rain from the now open window at his back howls on, chilling the near deathly silent room.

 

Peter wishes that he could just go home.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

It was listed on one of those easy (insert scoff of every user ever) renting sites that's been popping up with the changing times. It's two stories, though the second is cautioned as 'under construction', with two bedrooms, one bath, and an open kitchen slash living room on the first.

 

_Owner: Barbara Bland. ½ Renter: Wade Wilson. Other tenant needed. Rent can be negotiated. Manhattan. Specifically looking for someone who 'must make good life choices', as requested by Mr. Wilson._

 

Peter was absolutely floored when he saw the price – for Manhattan, even – but as he stands in front of the building itself, barely a few days later, he can pessimistically see why.

 

To the right is a long stretch of abandoned houses, or, 'under construction' houses that _look_ like they were abandoned. Like popsicle stick buildings not yet completed by their small child creators.

 

To the left is what appears to be an equally abandoned building that may or may not have been a school, may have been a crude asylum back in the day.  Either way, it looks like it could be the inspiration for an indie horror game; a bad one.

 

However; it _is_ suitably tall. Peter can grudgingly appreciate that, since he's going to need some help webbing upwards and gaining enough momentum to work his way throughout the city as Spider-Man.

 

Peter didn't think that Manhattan could have this much of a back road kind of place. Though, as he watches what could only be a small stray cat crawl around on the scaffolding of another house, he supposes he can attribute it to the damage routinely done to certain parts of the city. That's got to mess up the layout at the very least.

 

And, that's another thing. The owner was... weird, on the phone. Peter had managed to get the rent down to something that nearly gave him a heart attack with how low it was, but the process was almost... Too easy.

 

After some shameless schmoozing, despite Ms. Bland's near obvious paranoia, she eventually admitted that she was having... Problems, with Mr. Wilson. Mainly – she couldn't ‘force herself’ to ‘convince’ him to leave, and all of her other clients were being run off for reasons that she was reluctant to explain.

 

Though, she did reassure him that Mr. Wilson was apparently ‘just a misunderstood man.' She said something about him being a veteran, a very wealthy one with seemingly no family, and left it at that.

 

Nevertheless, here Peter stands, avoiding stepping on what looks to be what's left of a dry rotted porch, debating whether or not he should knock or just let himself in with the new key.

 

Turns out, he doesn't have to, as the door is ever so slightly ajar.

 

...Okay. He's saving any comments and concerns for after the show, it seems.

 

Nudging the ugly green thing with chipping paint and a too-low doorknob the rest of the way open, Peter slowly moves himself into the building with a cautious air and nary a sound. Aside from that awful, _awful_ long creak that the door exudes that perfectly sums up Peter's current experience with life.

 

Wincing, and half of him praying that his new housemate isn't actually here yet, the other hoping to get introductions over and done with already, Peter sets his boxes down to the side and shuts the door behind him. He's only got two, one smaller than the other, and all of his clothes are in the stuffed backpack he's also carrying.

 

After the second time he had to leave an apartment, he stopped trying to build his life again with material goods, and only sought to care for the necessities. And some trinkets.

 

After several long moments of stifling silence, in which Peter notes the slow floating dust in the air and the sound of what may be wind forcing its way through a cracked window, the tentative “hello?” that he was bargaining with gets stuck in his throat when he notices something... odd.

 

There's a trail of candy on the floor.

 

...What the hell.

 

Letting his bag drop silently to the ground, making a note in the back of his head to grab it if he needs to run off quickly (this place is _weird_ – even without his spider-senses yelling at him, he feels _off_ ) as he tiptoes his way down the candy line.

 

It looks deliberate, each piece placed roughly the same distance from the other, undeniably leading to somewhere further in the house. Peter glances to the right – an open room, leading into an equally open kitchen – and to the left – stairs going up, barely a handrail – before he focuses intently on the sweets trailing down a short hallway that serves as the wall to the living room/kitchen and the eventual separation between the upstairs floor and the downstairs.

 

The hallway erupts into a semi-circle, in which three rooms are displayed, broken apart by a few square windows that reach unnaturally high. Despite the soft-core horror film feeling of his situation, Peter can't help but be dimly impressed. This looks to be a fairly old house with unique designs.

 

The candy trail leads him into the third door, directly to his right. The far left one appears to be shut, but the middle is half-open and obviously the single bathroom. For some reason that Peter cannot fathom at the moment, it also has a frosted glass window.

 

He's going to have to cover that up with something.

 

His trip from the front door to the second bedroom feels as if it has taken much longer than it really has. He carefully sidles around the remainder of the floor candy, coming up upon a bed pushed against the wall, another window (he's going to count all of the windows before he leaves; this is just ridiculous) at its foot.

 

Peter is momentarily distracted with how the bed has a frame. Cool. Haven't had one of those in a while.

 

On the bed is what appears to be a piece of lined paper that makes his school-bound heart throb with nostalgia. It's weighed down by an entire pile of multi-colored jellybeans.

 

Stagnating with the unexplainable _weirdness_ of this whole situation, Peter takes a gander over his shoulder. Nope. Nothing there but the other bedroom and the trail of beans, still.

 

The baffled young hero gently sweeps the pile off with one hand, bringing the paper up to his face. He blinks twice, as if it would allow him to understand the situation more clearly.

 

Peter's never been reminded so vividly before of how much he _hates_ cursive until he finds himself trying to read it when written in thick magenta crayon. His thumb slides over the smooth lines of wax.

 

He knows that it starts with a 'Dear sir, madam, or non-binary peep,' which honestly endears him to its writer to some degree, and that it ends with a 'Love, your new buddy,' but the body... is entirely lost on him.

 

Hello, selective dyslexia. Oh how you've been _sorely_ missed.

 

Peter absently wonders if Mr. Wilson does this with all of their new housemates as he abandons the note on the bed and turns, giving the lingering trail of candy an appraising gaze. His anxiety hasn't left – as it never does these days – though the stifling air seems a bit more bearable now that Peter knows that there are no traps or tricks, nor his housemate, waiting to jump out and deliberately scare him off. If anything, it's welcoming. In an... _unconventional_ way.

 

Now what the devil is he supposed to do with all of this candy?

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Peter ends up finding a broom lying about underneath the couch (he's not going to ask why it was there and not the hallway closet) and uses it to sweep up the floor candy, depositing it in a plastic bag and then putting that bag in the trash can in the kitchen. He pretends that he used the plastic bag because he needed to keep the candy in one spot, but in reality he thinks that it might be rude if Mr. Wilson were to see their... _gift,_ in the trash. Not a great first impression.

 

Admittedly, Peter is secretly excited to have a real bed, a room with a door, and accessible facilities with few concerning stains again. His anxiety isn't letting him _not_ do the absolute best that he can to make sure that Mr. Wilson doesn't 'run him off' like they apparently have with the other co-renters.

 

Which he spends quite a lot of time thinking about, actually. Is Mr. Wilson a bad person? Is Peter going to have to get 'on duty' while here, thus putting both himself and Mr. Wilson out of a home? Peter's been evicted from apartments before, mostly from trying to fight for the right to _have_ livable spaces, but he's never had to bring Spider-Man directly into the process of it.

 

He only lasted a month at his previous apartment, seeing as the landlord locked all of the thermostats to only the bare minimum of legal temperatures. When Peter found out that there was an old woman one floor above him practically freezing to death and a disabled couple below him that couldn't possibly live in heat for very long, he sought to do something about it. Unfortunately, but apparently unsurprisingly according to other similarly wronged people, he lost.

 

Several apartments before that, the landlady was a plumb grade A jerk. Ableist as the high heavens, too. After a while, Peter just couldn't stand it, and made sure that the owner 'caught' him doing what he would normally do – mainly really, _really_ autistic stuff like stimming or babbling and repeating sounds a lot. He had started with staring into space, and ended with hanging out his window of all things.

 

Needless to say, Peter was kicked out of there after _that_ particular 'last straw.' Technically, that's discrimination, and he could get into some legalities, but he just moved on instead.

 

His stuff is no longer sitting sadly next to the front door; he moved it to its new (temporary?) home in the second bedroom before cleaning up the candy. The first bedroom door was something that he couldn't quite convince himself to look at very long, much less approach. The urge to snoop – or maybe knock, as his housemate could actually have been in there the whole time, and isn't _that_ a frightful thought – is still there, but he can easily squash it with a small wave of anxiety and uncertainty.

 

Instead, he finds himself hovering around the entrance area awkwardly. He doesn't know what he's doing, really. Stagnating, maybe. The anticipation has been building for the past hour, and he can't curb it when he has nothing to focus on.

 

He looks into the living room, eyes raking over the new and yet unchanged area. There's a couch that matches the ugly front door set directly in front of a surprisingly large and somewhat expensive flat screen TV. Underneath it is an ajar glass case which holds several consoles with games and DVDs stacked haphazardly around them.

 

The kitchen can be partially viewed from the entrance of the living room. It has a few counters and cupboards scattered about, a sink, and what appears to be either a washer and dryer or... two dish washers. Peter's hoping that it's the former. It also, strangely, has a back door, but no steps leading up to said door. _That's_ going to be fun crawling up and down trying to get the trash out (sarcasm included.)

 

Dancing about on his socked feet (the floors are kind of dirty; like whoever last cleaned them only did half the job before leaving), Peter bites his lip and flaps his hands a bit indecisively. His gaze wanders up the stairs, which lead into ominous darkness. From here, at the foot, it almost seems as if the light haze of dust gets even worse the further up it goes.

 

Swallowing a nervous noise, Peter lifts his foot and begins a hopefully silent and quick trek upstairs. The bottom floor is decked out with everything offered in the ad... What else could possibly be in here?

 

Of course, the stairs immediately begin filling the air with stark creaking noises.

 

Wincing with every small movement, Peter debates the merits of crawling along the wall. He throws that idea in the trash when his hand skims across what feels like a dent, then a give, and then a proper hole.

 

Okay. No crawling on the walls if his little spider heart can help it, then.

 

Peter's fingers find the edge of his soft hoodie, all the way down near his knees, and begins to knead it nervously. He wore this hoodie specifically today, knowing that he'd need the comfort. It used to be Uncle Ben's – or, well, Aunt May got it for Uncle Ben as a gift, but Uncle Ben never really wore it. Said that hoods and hoodies looked 'unprofessional.' Add that to the opinion about colored youth on the news that Aunt May constantly quieted in the presence of Peter and... Well, Peter never did get the courage to call the old man out on the casual racism.

 

...but he did steal the hoodie.

 

Now, with one hand balanced nervously on the wall, his head slowly being engulfed in a blanket of darkness that has him squinting and straining to pick out the dark wooden surroundings, that hoodie serves its purpose in grounding him.

 

When he finally hits the topmost area, he immediately notes that all of four of the visually available doors are closed. Any windows are either boarded up or, strangely, they don't exist, and this leaves the air musty and stale.

 

Except, it smells. Not bad, really, but heavily; a mix of scents that utterly clog up the nose.

 

On the floor is an army of air fresheners, the kind that sit and constantly diffuse into the air with their wetness, slowly becoming ugly gel husks that are too dry to smell at more than a few inches away.

 

Above all, however, it smells of... cinnamon.

 

Something shifts in Peter's mind as his heart sort of catches in his chest.  Cinnamon. He hates the smell of cinnamon. Cinnamon reminds him of _him,_ of that time, stuck in his room, when he was a kid...

 

 _He_ smelled like cinnamon. Not even overwhelmingly, but the first memory that jumps to mind when Peter smells cinnamon is of something nasty, curling, in his gut and mind, something that reminds him of –

 

Someone is coming to the front door. Whistling. Thumping boots.

 

Spider-senses ringing just enough to jump-start his heart, Peter takes the stairs back down two at a time, body jerking with each abnormally loud creak as he goes. All previous thoughts are wiped away by the sheer panic of the situation.

 

The knob jiggles, and Peter unwittingly freezes, just two steps to the floor.

 

No, god, they're going to walk in and _see_ him, catch him doing something wrong, and he's going to get kicked out before he's even spent a single night. Peter doesn't know why it's bad that he's upstairs but it _feels_ wrong so -

 

Oh. Peter forgot that he locked the door. Like an anxious goober.

 

There's the muffled sound of the someone ceasing to whistle, and the unmistakable dropping of keys (“Aw, shit.”) and before he knows it, Peter's flinging himself to the bottom floor, closer to the living room than the stairs.

 

Then he pauses again, taut with some sort of unnamable fear. Is this good? Is standing here waiting for his new housemate to come back too weird? Or should he stand in the hallway? Or is _that_ too weird? The sun is going down, so the hallway is sort of dark, but there's so many windows that maybe it'll be okay –

 

Just as he's considering the harebrained scheme of sprinting to his room and locking it– _god,_ why is he _so pent up right now_ – the door opens.

 

The first thing Peter notices is the pants. Proper, honest to god blue carpenter jeans. Then the shirt – tucked in and grey, with a popped collar and some buttons, makes him think of middle school uniforms. Then the hat; the same putrid green color as the couch and the door – and his own sweatpants, now that he thinks about it (scatterbrained under pressure), and is this same green color going to be making itself known throughout his life from now on because if so then he wants to see the manager –

 

The next thing he notices is the skin. His conversation with Ms. Bland pops back into his mind; 'veteran.'

 

Scars. Deep pock marks mixed with shallow. An overall pinkish brown color, some shiny spots. A few superficial wounds – or blisters? No eyebrows, no eyelashes, and Peter assumes no hair even with the hat in the way –

 

Dangerous eyes.

 

...Wait, what?

 

Mr. Wilson peers at him, the muscles where their eyebrows of unknown color should be shifting upwards and lifting that reddened skin. Peter unwittingly mimics the expression, his own eyebrows climbing high.

 

And he knows that Mr. Wilson is examining him, too. His simply giant red hoodie, the pouch in front squared out of bounds with a hidden notebook, then his faded green sweatpants, bulging out too low for the hips and pooling around his feet, which are covered in fuzzy orange socks with dancing giraffes on them.

 

He doesn't even want to think about what his own face must look like – spotty, probably, maybe even a bit bruised. Undeniably bug-eyed and waiting, watching, like he's been told he's prone to doing.

 

A small standstill. Peter really wishes that he booked it to his room when he had the chance.

 

One second, they're both barely breathing the air, and then the next, Mr. Wilson is bursting into fluid action that has Peter floored beyond comprehension.

 

“Hi there!” Mr. Wilson says in a voice that is startling – much higher, much _louder_ than Peter initially assumed it would be. “I'm Wade. Wade Wilson. You must be,” their gaze flits up and down once more. Quick. “What young filly that done wandered in for a spell.”

 

Every perception that built up about Mr. Wilson before meeting them is dashed with strike precision to the jugular.

 

Winging it, round one.

 

Peter has to awkwardly pull himself together, clearing his throat not once, but twice (oh, _cringe_ ), sticking out his hand and ignoring the way is visibly shakes. “Mr... Wilson. I-I'm Peter. Peter Parker.” The resident wet blanket.

 

“Wade. Do me a favor and drop the Mr. Wilson, would ya'?” Mr. Wilson – Wade, apparently – tells Peter in the same tone of voice as before. “It sounds a bit nasty, don't'cha think?”

 

With that, Wade shoulders his way past Peter, completely bypassing the hand as he makes his way to the kitchen for some currently unexplained reason.

 

As they go, Peter gets a whiff of something medicinal. Powdery. It's... weird and way softer than what he would expect from somebody who essentially looks like a particularly buff fuckboy with pizza skin out the whazoo.

 

Dropping the hand and pretending like he knows exactly what he's doing, Peter absently trails after the active Wade. The other person has toed off their shoes next to the couch and abandoned their hat to the same fate, now standing at one of the kitchen counters and fiddling with something unseen.

 

Peter stands at the beginning of the yellowed linoleum kitchen floor and the end of the old wood of the rest of the house and pauses, once again fearing that he's made some sort of terribly socially unacceptable mistake.

 

Something in his heart cries out for the familiarity of his home – of Aunt May – and he forcefully silences it.

 

“Oh, good!” Wade bursts out, taking visual notice of Peter. They don't even comment on the way he is rocking back and forth on his toes, and he's silently grateful. “You're wearing your socks. Great! This place is uh... The floors are dirty a lot. I try to clean them, but, y'know,” Wade twirls their hand in the and makes a face. “Busy guy and all. Just make sure you wear those adorable little toe huggers at all times, 'kay?”

 

With a lack of better things to respond with, Peter nods.

 

“Which reminds me – ground rules.” Wade claps his hands together. Peter totally doesn't flinch. “So, Peter – can I call you Peter? – yea, that's probably a nod and not a neck spasm, okay, so - !”

 

There's a crashing noise coming from the back door.

 

Immediately, Peter's head whips to the source. What was that? Is that normal? No – Wade looks suspicious as well, narrowing their eyes at the door and, oh gosh, clenching their fists, maybe Peter _should_ take care of this...

 

He steps forward before Wade can, opening the door with a creak (what in this house _doesn't_ ) and peering into the dark blue light of the late evening.

 

On the pavement below is the stray cat that Peter spotted earlier. It's standing half on the metal trash bin lid, the rest of the bin still standing upright and empty. It's reflective eyes swivel to meet theirs, apparently frozen after making such a loud noise unexpectedly.

 

Peter's heart swells. It's probably hungry – it sure looks thin and dirty. Maybe he could bring it inside for a bit, set about getting it something to eat, if there's even any food to be eaten by a cat here –

 

Except Wade takes the time to scare the absolute pants off of Peter by standing right behind him.

 

“Aw, hell,” Wade grunts unhappily somewhere above Peter's head, “it's back again. How many times do I have to tell the thing that the _reservation_ wasn’t just a suggestion.”

 

With little to no warning, Wade gives a sharply shouted _“Oy!”_ and the cat is taking off like a bullet, escaping between two buildings within the blink of an eye.

 

And then the other person is turning away and wandering back to the counter where what seems like a coffee maker sits, as if they hadn't just _yelled at a cat._

 

Stunned, Peter slowly closes the door, waiting for a moment before turning around again.

 

Okay. That's... not the weirdest thing ever. Maybe they're allergic? Maybe that cat in particular is feral or something?

 

Maybe Wade Wilson is truly, honestly a horrible person and this is only the tip of the iceberg?

 

...God, Peter hopes not. This place has heating. _Heating._ He can feel it in the way his toes aren't currently freezing. And he knows that the thermostat isn't locked off or nonexistent because he passed it in the hallway and even caressed it gently with grateful fingers before realizing how weird that was and backing off.

 

Taking a deep breath, Peter shuffles forward until his hip hits the side of what he guesses constitutes as the kitchen table. Except you can't see the top of it with the mountains of paper and documents crowding about. There are also no chairs to be seen.

 

“So, um...” Peter pipes up with, having to spend a few seconds modulating his voice to be louder. “What- what were those ground rules, again?”

 

Wade makes a “hm?” noise and turns around. “Oh. _Oh!_ Oh _yeah!”_ They breathe out and smile like they'd just come across something amazing.

 

“Don't tell me what to do and don't say numbers at me.”

 

Once again, Peter finds himself mentally stuck in a rut and choking on the proverbial dust of the enigmatic Wade as he absently watches the other person leave the kitchen (without even bothering to use the prepped the coffee maker, as he notes) and plop down on the couch, digging what appears to be a remote out from in between the cushions and turning on the TV.

 

Peter stands still and thinks about the cat. Then he thinks about the table he's currently pressed against, covertly pressure stimming in an attempt to comfort himself. Then he thinks about Wade, who acts so casual and at home that it makes him feel like a temporary visitor – someone not worth looking out for in the grand scheme of things.

 

Thus, even when he thinks about food – about _actual ground rules_ and not just one incredibly vague statement (“Don't tell me what to do and don't say numbers at me”? Peter gets the first part, maybe, but the second? What in the _world_ ) he doesn't try to find out anything about food. Do they buy only their own food? Is everything in the fridge fair game? Are there certain foods not allowed at all due to allergies?

 

Instead, Peter pretends that he's got enough bravery and energy in order to walk either in between the couch and the TV (currently, dangerously occupied) or walk around it.

 

“Hey, Petey?” Wade calls quite loudly, halting any sort of mental workaround that Peter could possibly have. And, um, 'Petey?' “Can you be a doll and tell me what time it is?”

 

Unwittingly, his eyes flit to the glowing green numbers of the clock on the microwave mounted on the wall above the oven... but then he pauses.

 

...Don't say numbers at them.

 

Is this some kind of... of test? Is Wade deliberately being a jerk? Does Peter ever know what to do without becoming an indecisive ball made purely of anxiety? The answer to that is no, but only the last one.

 

So Peter does the smart thing (the _only_ thing), opens the back door, hops down to the pavement, and climbs into his bedroom window, locking his door once he gets in there.

 

It's not an overreaction. It's just not.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Peter's only been living with Wade for a week, but he can say one thing with irrefutable surety:

 

It is an acquired experience.

 

He can't really describe it as a whole – he's never lived with anyone but his aunt and uncle (and his parents, but he doesn't count that anymore. Maybe, when he was younger, but they 'left' when he was five, and over sixteen years apart doesn't exactly leave him with a whole heaping lot of memories to call upon.) Maybe this was... normal?

 

Surely not.

 

One time, when Peter was coming out of his room (locked, always locked, but Wade has never made any move to approach his door anyway) he practically walked onto his housemate, who was dead asleep in the middle of the floor just outside the bathroom. Peter damn near gave up on the day and locked himself in his room again, but he ended up just stepping over the unconscious person and spending time patrolling, coming back periodically until he was sure that Wade wasn't in the house anymore.

 

More frequent events include Wade repeatedly asking questions that, according to 'the ground rules' from day one, Peter isn't allowed to answer. Things like 'what time is it?', 'what's the date again?', and Wade's current fixation: 'how many sweaters are you even _wearing_ right now?'

 

Firmly placed under the “Don't tell me what to do” category is questions like 'should I go to the store now, or later?' and 'how do _toasters_ work.' Both are only precautions.

 

As one can already tell, the two housemates don't exactly manage to finish a lot of conversations.

 

Better safe than sorry – though Peter has yet to be sorry or not-safe, if he can admit to it.

 

Devoid of any better ideas or any easier route, Peter absconds. Literally. Tosses himself out the nearest window if he has to. Wade hasn't commented yet, but he can't tell if that's a good thing or not.

 

Peter's favorite from the current lineup has to be, hands down, 'should I get a haircut?' He actually groaned as he crawled out the kitchen (yes, the kitchen, which he had been innocently washing the hot chocolate stains out of a cup, stupidly assuming that he was home alone) window. He's pretty sure that he even heard Wade hold in a laugh as he gracelessly went.

 

Needless to say, Peter is now very thankful for the inordinate amount of windows in the house.

 

 _And another thing!_ Peter still doesn't know the _actual_ ground rules. He adamantly refuses to believe that “Don't tell me what to do and don't say numbers at me” are anywhere near what is needed in terms of communication and healthy cohabitation. _Especially_ between two strangers who couldn't be more different as night and day.

 

However, there are some upsides to... toiling in near constant anxiety and, dare he fondly (with an eye twitch, though) say, shenanigans. Wade is gone most of the time, making Peter's comings and goings as both Spider-Man and the Daily Bugle photographer slash freelancer a cinch.

 

Even though rent is phenomenally low, it's due every week, which means that Peter literally cannot afford any days off. But he guesses that he understands Ms. Bland's reasoning – better make sure the client pays up before they're inevitably scared away.

 

When Peter gets – home? Is he even allowed to call this place home or is that too forward – back from patrolling close to the early morning hours, he quickly changes into his pajamas (a really, really big shirt that's so soft it might fall apart) and quietly toes his way to the bathroom.

 

As per usual, his housemate's bedroom door is shut tight. Though, Peter can't blame them, as he also shuts his door even when he's not inside. Besides, Wade might not even be home – Peter's caught them coming in the door at five AM once, completely surprised that he had been unaware of their departure. He'd holed up in his room for nothing all night.

 

When he gets to the bathroom, lightly nudging the door all of the way open, Peter can immediately tell that something is... off. For one thing, the window is open. The bathroom window is the only window that Peter never opens – he just sees no reason to. He was hoping that Wade also shared this sentiment.

 

The other thing that he notices is that there's a certain quality to the air. It prickles at his nerves, but his spider-senses barely rouse themselves to wakefulness. Instead, he focuses on the way it smells. He can't really tell, but it's sort of... wet.

 

Cautiously (when is he not in this house), Peter tiptoes into the bathroom, feet bare from where he forgot his socks as they make annoyingly sweat sticky noises against the linoleum. His shadowy form encroaching on the mirror to his right gives him the heebie jeebies, so he focuses intently on approaching the window.

 

A throat clears from behind the bathtub curtain.

 

Shrieking and practically putting his head through the ceiling with how high he jumps, Peter accidentally sends a thread of webbing out the window (oh, how embarrassing. “Performance issues.”) His body twists as he unearths the metal bat that he'd been keeping next to the toilet by the window for this very reason.

 

He _knew_ it. Windows in bathrooms just spells trouble.

 

When nothing immediately happens, Peter hazards that he can turn on the light, and does so with a shaky flip of the switch. He slowly approaches the ugly green and blue shower curtain, breath stuttering in his throat as he arcs the bat behind him as well as he can within the small confines.

 

With one swift move, Peter shunts the curtain aside.

 

“Oh hey Petey,” the collapsed, bloody form of Deadpool croaks wetly from the bottom of the tub, “That's funny. You're totally from Queens, aren't you? And here I thought it was just a hunch.”

 

Oh, god. How did Peter not see – not _hear?_ Their voices are practically the same, the inflection, the off-colored jokes, the harried movements and obviously disordered thinking that makes his housemate randomly drop tasks and start new ones on the fly.

 

That and Deadpool's mask is off and that's undeniably Wade Wilson's face underneath.

 

Thus, that must also be Wade's arm, obviously detached from its owner, slung over the side of the tub.

 

“D-dead...” Peter wheezes, not yet lowering the bat. Deadpool. He'd been rooming with _Deadpool_ of all people.

 

What is his life.

 

“Nope, still alive,” Deadpool – _Wade_ – responds obnoxiously. Peter resists the urge to conk them in the side of the head. “Though could you give me a hand? An arm? Can you please pick up my arm and, uh, yea, just nudge it, I can get it the rest of the way…”

 

Peter proceeds to follow the instructions almost robotically, picking up one slightly grimy foot and balancing as he pushes the arm towards Wade's collapsed form until they can use their other arm – equally drenched in blood – to grab it. They then go about fitting the severed appendage back into place, all casual like.

 

“Now, I know what you may be wondering,” Wade narrates, seemingly just hunky dory with both being threatened by an obviously high-strung guy with a metal bat and re-fitting their own arm back into working order. “'How is it that a _mercenary_ can rent a house like this _and_ have the gall to put up ads for a roommate?' The answer to that, my suspicious little buddy,” Peter's hands tighten around the bat. “Is money. Lots and lots of money. A couple extra hundred and the owner never sticks her nose any farther than her face.”

 

Peter stares down at them, eyes running over the multitude of bullet holes, all squeezing the last of the blood before achingly sealing themselves off minute by minute.

 

“'But, but Mr. Pool', you ask,” they go on as if Peter wasn't still as a statue. “'What about all of the supposed _spineless mooks_ living here you've dealt away with?' The answer to that one is pretty much the same actually. I don't even have to pay them money before they're running out the door. And to keep them from cattin' on me, well... It's called having a really, really big... Gun.”

 

Thankfully, despite what Peter feared for a split second there, Wade doesn't actually pull out a gun. Instead, they just wheeze out an awful laugh.

 

Mind a whorl of thoughts tainted with emotions, Peter lets the air become silent but ugly with the residual noises of Wade's festering, healing body. He works overtime trying to figure out a way to... Well, bottom line is that he wants out of this room without a bullet hole in the back of his head.

 

Winging it, round two.

 

“D-do you need, um, need...” Peter shifts his stance, but still can't bring himself to lower the bat. Okay then. Pretend that it isn't there. “Painkillers. I...” Don't know where I'm going with that sentence.

 

Wade gives him a look, something like doubt mixed with surprise. “Uh... Yea, I could go with some painkillers right now. Why, you got any?”

 

Suck in a breath. And... Go. “Great. Okay, I... I'm gonna go get you some... Some painkillers.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“Yup, right now.”

 

With that, Peter shuffles his way over to the window, pretending that the long, thin trail of webbing totally isn't right outside on the ground, also overlooking the now incredibly obvious trail of blood leading from the window to the tub.

 

Before he's fully pulled himself out of the window, however, he can't help but turn back, point an accusing finger, and announce “This is the last window that I'm crawling out of.”

 

He takes the bat with him.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Peter perches on his bed and diffuses.

 

Deadpool is currently sitting in the tub like a defrosting ham – _eugh,_ bad imagery – and will most likely be out of commission for... most of the night. Peter couldn't find the heart to lock his door, either, because he was afraid that Deadpool would hear it. He doesn't know if he's trying to be nice or just plain scared of getting shot or, or... talked at. Getting talked at by Deadpool is an Experience that he doesn't have the energy to deal with right now.

 

And just... God; _Deadpool._ He's been living with _Deadpool._ The mercenary – the _murderer._ The person who Peter likes to blame for everything wrong in his life during hopeless, 4 AM moments even though he knows that that's unfair and has no real ground except in his emotions.

 

...but, Deadpool.

 

Peter's got half a mind to call Tony Stark right now. Tony would know what to do – plus, the Avenger had told him that he could call at any time, especially now that his identity wasn't as privy as it used to be.

 

Though... Peter sets the phone down and crunches his face up. What would he say? That Deadpool attempting to live like a (partially) law-abiding citizen annoys him? That he was somehow tricked into rooming with the merc through unexplainable means?

 

Complain to a billionaire-inventor-hero who _saved his secret identity_ from becoming public about the person who literally _saved his life_ by taking another?

 

Sighing, Peter shoves his face in between his arms and presses, digging his thumbs into the sides of his head.

 

He never... really thanked them, either, for saving him. He was so shocked that Deadpool had just shot somebody, point-blank, right in front of his face, than he was concerned over his own injuries at the time.

 

He was so mad. He was _so mad._ His aunt's death, his subsequent loss of anything even close to financial stability, his mental health taking a prompt nosedive off the nearest tall building... Deadpool going back on that flimsy instruction of 'no killing!' just did him in, even if it wouldn’t have at an earlier point in time.

 

Peter takes another few breathes and fishes his phone out from in between the sheets. Flipping through the contacts while simultaneously chewing holes through his sleeve, he reluctantly bypasses the folder conspicuously and unimaginatively labeled ‘GUYS.’ Instead, he goes straight down to a contact not inside a specific folder, called ‘Harry’s Place.’

 

Pressing the phone to his ear, he waits with bated breath for the sound of a pickup.

 

The usual secretary asks who is calling and to state their business.

 

“Hey, Marsha…” Peter gets out. “Yea, it’s… It’s me again. Can I talk to Harry?”

 

The secretary, with a voice much less droll and much more familiar than her answering tone, happily patches him through with plenty of ‘thank you’s at hand.

 

While he waits for the lines to transfer, he decides that he’s going to crawl out his window and buy as many pain killers as feasibly possible, like some kind of messed up warrior’s gift basket. No one really says no to Spider-Man while buying things, not even weird or restricted things.

 

A fuzzy thump, signaling a connected line. Peter lets himself sink into the bed, ear pressed close to the speaker as his… his _last friend’s_ voice soothes him.

 

“Hey, Harry.”

 

“…Peter…”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_“…What’s wrong, Har?”_

_“…Nothing, I just… I feel like I’m forgetting something.”_

_“…”_

_“…but, you know how that is with me. Like this.”_

_“…I’m sorry, Har.”_

_“…Just be careful, Pete.”_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Coming out of his room in the morning plays like a stressful nightmare.

 

He’s got, like, ten different kinds of pain killers bundled in his arms. He was right; nobody messes with a faceless guy who’s saved your store from being held up at gunpoint several times within the past year, not even when they’re buying way over the legal amounts of medication.

 

He automatically turns to his roommate’s ( _Deadpool’s._ Oh god…) bedroom door, only to find it… Open.

 

Well. That’s new.

 

But so is everything else, so he barely sticks around to peek inside – yup, that’s’ a gun. On the bed. Moving on.

 

Pretending to be the phlegmatic being that he surely is not, Peter steps lightly down the hallway…

 

…then draws up short when he spots an unknown person at the front door, Wade holding the ugly green thing open and looking acutely distressed in a very similar getup to what he wore the first day Peter moved in.

 

“Yea, this one’s lasted a little bit longer than the others, but I just don’t think that he’s sticking around after this week…” Wade is telling the short, plump woman with a cane. She twists her mouth, which is covered in waxy red lipstick that looks like it gets on your teeth no matter what.

 

“I… Well, alright, Mr. Wilson,” the woman – Ms. Bland, Peter suspects – sighs. “You just make sure that that young man pays up, you hear – “

 

She stops, peering over Wade’s broad shoulders while on her tippy toes. She’s staring directly at Peter.

 

Peter wheezes a little bit, floored. What is going on? He never told Wade that he was _leaving,_ or anything even like it. In fact, he’d insinuated that he’d be back.

 

His heart immediately jumps into his throat.

 

Is he… being kicked out?

 

“I have the rent money!” Peter exclaims suddenly, feet stuck to the floor. Literally. He can’t move his feet. Damn his emotionally charged body. “I have… rent. Please don’t kick me out. I’ll…” He looks around. Wings it. “I’ll… Whatever it is, I’ll clean it up?”

 

Ms. Bland blinks at him. Wade blinks at him. Peter blinks at himself.

 

He probably just blew it.

 

“I have your… medicine?” Peter offers, lifting his somewhat illegally obtained loot up as if the two people couldn’t see them practically falling out of his arms with sheer number.

 

“You _want_ to stay?” Wade asks incredulously, turning away from Ms. Bland in order to look down at Peter like he just did something inconceivably stupid. With the way things are going right now, he probably did; he just doesn’t fully comprehend it yet.

 

“Yes? Please?” Peter gets out. When nothing else comes forth from Wade’s hanging mouth (he feels the need to tell them that their mouth is open but refrains), he tries again for clarification. “Am I being kicked out?”

 

“Why, no, you aren’t!” Ms. Bland says somewhat excitedly, giving the still stunned Wade a conspiring look and a pat on the shoulder (which they minutely flinch at. The landlady might not notice, but Peter does.) She gives a full smile to Peter – yup, there’s red slathered all over her front teeth. He pretends not to notice. “Just be sure you pay on time, okay Peter?”

 

Slightly miffed – why does Wade get ‘Mr. Wilson’ but he gets ‘just Peter’? Honestly… he’s an adult, too – Peter sort of dumbly nods his head. True relief is a long time coming, and he can’t relax just yet.

 

Wade takes the chance to flail his arms and make a confused noise that would’ve had Peter clinging to the ceiling in any other situation. “Whoa! Wait, let’s just, think about this for a second here – “

 

“Do you have any complaints about Mr. Parker, Mr. Wilson?” Ms. Bland flutters her gooey black eyelashes up at a flabbergasted Wade.

 

“Well, no, but – “

 

“Then we have nothing to worry about!” Ms. Bland says happily, thumping her cane once. Everyone resolutely ignores how another chunk of the porch throws itself to the ground. “Mr. Wilson, Peter; I’ll check up on you sometime soon, m’kay?”

 

“M’kay,” Peter echoes. What else can he do?

 

Wade looks like he’s about ready to say something else, except Ms. Bland puts one wrinkly, sun-spotted hand on his bicep and squeezes, lowly saying something that sounds like “don’t scare this one off,” before waving jubilantly and making her way back down to her ugly green car.

 

Peter’s jaw works. That green color is going to be the death of him.

 

Similarly, Wade reaches forward and slowly closes the front door, seemingly unheedful of the awfully loud creak it emits. His jaw, too, is doing something akin to a tic.

 

“You don’t…” Wade sighs, rubbing at his face. “You don’t need to stay here. With me. You seem like a pretty standup guy, and I’d hate to see you, uh…” They seem to take a mental tumble with their choice of words. “Hate to see you fall in with me, you know? I am _not_ a good person. Duh, _he knows that, he_ saw _you…”_

 

Cue the self-argument characteristic of the mercenary.

 

Peter just huffs out a breath, heart thumping in his throat as he takes a few steps forward (making sure that he’s thoroughly un-stuck first. How embarrassing would it be to face plant right now – he’s fully capable of it at any time, actually) until he’s standing in front of a hunched over Wade.

 

“I want to live here,” Peter tells him. His heart quivers annoyingly when Wade’s eyes go big and their mouth falls open again, as if they just couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Frankly, neither could he. “I like it here. Even the doors that all creak, and the dirty floors, and the fridge that constantly smells like mayo. Even… You.” Peter wrinkles his nose. “You’re… _okay,_ I guess.”

 

He’s not going to give any more than that. He’s not _that_ sappy. Or desperate enough to bend over backwards just to stroke this guy’s emotional ego.

 

Turns out, he doesn’t have to, because Wade looks like they were just gifted the biggest unicorn plush they’d ever seen.

 

Knowing Wade, that would actually make them incredibly happy, too.

 

“Holy. _Shit!”_ Wade spits out, nearly making Peter take a step back. Why does he always get distracted and forget how _loud_ the mercenary can be. _“You’re for real._ Really? Really. Oh my god. _Shit._ Are those for me?”

 

Dazed, it takes a few seconds for Peter to nod. He releases a hand from under his armpit and lifts one up. “Yea, I- I was gonna put them in the cabinet in the bathroom, but…”

 

“Nah, I’ll take ‘em now.”

 

And Wade does. Take them now, that is. Twists off the cap on the offered bottle and upends the whole thing into his mouth. Even chews a couple of times like he didn’t just fill his mouth with pills; like he’s casually gnawing on a particularly bland piece of fruit.

 

Peter feels his soul leave his body.

 

Some part of him wishes that he had packed up and gotten out of dodge while he still could.

 

“Great! These are great, really crunchy,” Wade says around a mouthful of chalky _death._ Peter can’t seem to swallow. “Man, that brand… Anywho,” he slaps his hands together, rocking around on his heels. “Just dump those on the couch, I’ll eat them during my Golden Girls marathon. Hey, man, thanks for being such a great pal, really appreciate it. You don’t even have to explain to me how you got that many painkillers, because I _do_ _not_ care.”

 

Peter finds himself in a sort of déjà vu situation, replaying the events of his first day here as he trails after the galumphing Wade, toppling his tower of bottles onto the couch and observing his roommate as they root around in the freezer on top of the fridge and slap a frozen pizza onto the cluttered oven top.

 

“Dude; pizza?” They offer.

 

Instead of responding with something even remotely normal – sure, Wade, I’d love some free food – he blurts out what his mind finds most pertinent at this point in time.

 

“What are the _real_ house rules?” He practically demands.

 

Wade pauses in his movements. He looks up at the ceiling like he’s forgetting something important. Then he looks back down at Peter with an exuberant expression. “Oh, man. Did I tell you how _fucking hilarious_ it was watching you do all of that shit? Because it was, it so wa- Oh, you don’t look too happy.”

 

Peter just got done folding his arms and giving Wade one of his best ‘I am disappointed in you’ faces that may or may not be modeled after Captain America’s. “Of course I’m not happy. You had me crawling out of windows for a week!”

 

“Hey, I didn’t _make_ you crawl out those windows,” Wade points out, “You did that yourself, and might I say, it was _painfully_ creative. I was impressed.”

 

“Yea, well,” Peter huffs, becoming nervous once more. “Just… Remember what I said last night. That was the last window I’m crawling out of.” Actually, it will be far from it. But Wade doesn’t need to know that, preferably ever.

 

Wade nods, but he’s still smiling way too big, scars stretching across his face like they are their own mouths full of mirth. “Right-o.” He slaps a hand down onto the pizza. Peter cringes a little at that, knowing that Wade’s hygiene is… not the best. “Any food in the fridge is okay to be in your mouth. Same goes with the freezer or just shit lying about. I don’t really care. Oh,” he raises a not-eyebrow. “What’s your favorite takeout?”

 

“Uhm…” Peter fumbles, “Chinese?”

 

“Ooo,” Wade makes a disappointed face. “Wrong answer, but fine. We’ll get it _sometimes._ Hey, do Chinese tacos exist?”

 

“No,” Peter answers flatly, having distinct memories of Deadpool asking Spider-Man the exact same thing once.

 

Wade rolls his eyes, “Eh, didn’t think so.” He pauses for a moment, squints at the wall above Peter’s head, then gasps out a small ‘oh’. “Also, if it’s expired – leave it in the fridge. If you don’t like it? Leave it in the fridge but, like, draw my face on it or something. You know which face.” He winks, like Peter finding Deadpool chopped into pieces in the tub was a party-friendly conversation topic.

 

“Why?” Peter can’t help but ask. Does this mean that Wade is offering to take out any smelly trash?

 

“I’ll eat it,” Wade says simply. Gross. “Don’t look at me like that – I’m good for the environment. Except when I get down and dirty at Pablo’s Authentic Mexican cart. You know what; I’m pretty sure that he’s actually from Argentina.” He wrinkles his forehead, then shrugs it off.

 

“If I’m in the bathroom, and the door is shut,” Wade cautions him. “You probably shouldn’t go in. Ever. Even if you hear the bowels of hell opening and the souls of the damned screaming. Just… don’t call the police, or else. And I _mean_ the ‘or else’ this time. It’s a _serious business_ ‘or else.’ I’ve gotta,” Wade seems to go on a soft tangent for a moment. “I’ve gotta protect you from the grisly shit, you get it? Yea, you get it, look at you…”

 

“…Okay,” Peter gets out, a bit short of breath, though he doesn’t know why he expected anything else. This is _Deadpool_ after all.

 

Some part of him shudders. He still hasn’t properly gone over his feelings, his thoughts. Will he be able to live with a murderer? The person who –

 

“Hey, buddy,” Wade interrupts his thought process with a few snapping fingers. “You with me here? _Wow,_ mark this shit down as the first time I’ve been on this end of _that_ question… Okay, so – wear your socks, always. This place is awful about hidden rusty nails and the ultimate lady gets mad at me when I spill unnecessary blood stains. Said that they’re ‘hard to get rid of’ or something.” He makes a face that says ‘what can you do?’ and perfectly showcases his messed up priorities.

 

Peter wiggles his bare toes. He’d forgotten to put on his socks this morning – that or he needs to wash them. He peers covertly at the two similar-looking machines next to the fridge.

 

…He’s at least 84% sure that those are a washer and dryer. Probably.

 

“I can do that,” Peter says almost absentmindedly.

 

“Great! Laundry days are on Mondays, because, you know,” Wade snorts, walking over to the – washer? Drier? – and pats the machine while leaning on it. “Can’t just let any gobbly mook use my good old washy and dry-ee before they pay rent. Nope, no siree, bought these suckers myself. Best damn swirly whirly bullshit devices on the market.”

 

A dial pops off. Wade shoves it back on. His face never changes.

 

“Ah,” Peter voices. Because ‘ah.’

 

How… weirdly charming.

 

“So!” Wade claps his hands together again, a repeated motion that, despite its loud noise, seems to calm Peter’s insides somewhat. “Anything you want to add, Petey-boy? I am open to most suggestions, and I do mean _most.”_ He waggles his not-eyebrows.

 

“Yea,” Peter begins, utterly devastating the blatant come-on, “don’t call me ‘Petey-boy.’” Wade whines. Peter ignores it. “And… I’m a really heavy sleeper, so… If you knock on my door and I don’t answer… Just, don’t try to break it down or anything.”

 

“Huh, really?” Wade ponders. “What do you do in your room all day; cam business? I heard that that’s real popular these days.”

 

It takes a few seconds for the sentence to register, and even as Peter’s face does something surprised and scandalized, Wade seems to only be politely interested. “I- _No,_ I _do not do_ ‘cam business.’ I, I have online classes…” His whole mind locks up at the false admission.

 

Peter just lied about being enrolled in college. He doesn’t know why. He _panicked;_ he _always panics._

 

…Aw, nuts.

 

“Oh, sweet, a scholar. Gee, Petey, you must be a really on-top-of-it kinda gal, huh,” Wade continues, apparently unaware of Peter’s growing self-made doom. “What school are you doing the school stuff at?”

 

Peter automatically rattles off the name of one of the colleges that he was accepted into but never pursued. He makes a mental note in his head to try and apply as a late enrollment. Which is what he should’ve been doing for the past year, anyway.

 

And then he just sits and stews with his life choices. He got himself on the path to college just because he panicked and lied to someone about going to college.

 

Wow, Parker, wow.

 

What’s that band called again? ‘All Time Low?’ Peter needs to go listen to some All Time Low – not because he knows what the sound like, but because he is truly at his all-time low.

 

“Cool! Great!” Wade seems to be listing off all of the positive synonyms that he can recall. It, strangely (can you taste the sarcasm) doesn’t make Peter feel any better. “I have no idea where that is! I’m gonna go watch TV now. Great talk, new roomie!”

 

With that, Wade wanders off. Peter passively watches as Wade completely bypasses the actual TV. He actually walks straight out the front door without pausing.

 

Peter ineffectually clears his mind by blinking several times at the empty house.

 

…Alright.

 

Peter notes that Wade left the half-thawed pizza on the stovetop, so he sets about shoving it into the pre-heated oven with only a few grumbles. He also takes a good look at the cluttered kitchen, something that he hasn’t been able to do this past week when he was afraid of encountering Wade at any turn.

 

He leans against the counter and sighs, mind going over several different things at once, and yet never really stopping to deeply consider anything. He feels too wrung-out for that right now.

 

All he can think about – all he can _feel_ – is the mind-numbing relief. He’s gonna be okay. He’s got a (hopefully) steady place to live for a while, even if it is with someone that he’d rather jump off of a cliff than speak to more often than not. He’s at that sort of ‘take your lumps’ stage in his life where even the worst case scenario ends up compartmentalized in his mind more like a ‘well, it could be _worse.’_

 

He’s got Tony, he reassures himself. He’s got Tony and Cap and an agent – probably Coulson, or a close worker with Coulson now that he thinks about it – of SHIELD all on his cellphone, also courtesy of the iron billionaire. He’s marginally safe.

 

If things ever get to be too much, he can cat on Deadpool. Especially if it’s their fault in the first place, which Peter seems resolute that it will be their doing.

 

Peter checks on the pizza, and takes it out once he sees that it’s done. He eats half of it himself, leaning against the paper-covered table and staring into space – because he can. He stores the other half in the fridge in a plastic container he found under what may be the schematics for an exploding piñata.

 

He pauses right before he’s about to close the fridge door; pulls out a mostly clean sticky notepad from underneath the mess surrounding him on nearly every countertop and scribbles down a rudimentary red Deadpool ‘face’, the yellow of the pad filling in the supposed black parts.

 

Self-satisfied, Peter slaps his creation onto the top of the saved pizza slices, discarding the pen and pad somewhere in the tornado of trash surrounding him, resolving to deal with the mess later.

 

“Yup,” Peter says to himself, nodding at the inside of the fridge with a relaxed mien.

 

He’s going to be fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a vent fic. it doesn't look like a vent fic, but trust me, it totes is. i like shoving all of my feelings off onto peter because no one's going to stop me.
> 
> p.s. 'Riva Upp' is swedish for tear/rip. s'why deadpool calls her IKEA.  
> p.p.s. Peter naturally secretes/bodily creates his webbing in this one. Simply for the ease of 'well if he can't afford to build his own and I can't explain it otherwise... why not.'


	2. better the devil you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meat's back on the menu, boys
> 
> (chapter is for [audi's](https://punkhalfghosts.tumblr.com) bday)
> 
> *Allusions to physical abuse, allusions to past sexual abuse, threats of violence, tense situations, second-hand embarrassment, anxiety attacks, meltdowns, sensory overloads, psychotic mannerisms, some shouting/fighting and physical altercations, graphic depictions of past injuries and violence, descriptions of actual spiders.

 

“ _Wade!”_ Peter calls through the open door in the kitchen. The rising sun shines annoyingly in his eyes as he searches the pitiful excuse for a ‘back yard.’ It looks more like a deserted lot full of dubious shrubs. “If you want me to be able to start the laundry then come back in here and tell me how your goddamn beast of a washer works!”

 

It’s Monday – the day after Peter very nearly seemed to be about to get the boot from his new home life with the masked mercenary, Deadpool. Or, when Peter is particularly annoyed, ‘Wade fucking Wilson.’

 

It surprised him at first, being able to be ‘simply annoyed’ with someone as dangerous and volatile as Deadpool. But, as he’s come to intimately experience, Wade is straight up annoying about 90% of the time.

 

” _Wade fucking Wilson!”_

 

Kind of like right now.

 

Peter huffs, scuffing his socked feet along the roughened kitchen floor. His eyes squint as he stares out the open door, cool air biting his cheeks. He _knows_ that he saw Wade attempting to quietly slink out this way; it was right after he suggested that the two get a head start on the laundry before they both inevitably disappear for the day.

 

Except it appears that Wade’s decided to disappear a bit earlier than agreed upon.

 

Scoffing in minute disgust – because of course _Deadpool_ of all people would leave somebody else to do the laundry – he turns around with the internal plan of just winging it.

 

Instead, Peter finds himself stifling a gasp as he comes face-to-tit with the man in the bright red and black suit.

 

He tilts his head back and uncomfortably looks up into the pupil-less white eyes of Deadpool’s mask. The merc simply breathes and stares down at him. It’s all very unnerving and makes Peter wish he were dreaming instead of actually having to deal with this.

 

Swallowing the lump in his throat in an attempt to quiet whatever undisguised emotion is trying to crawl up it, Peter takes a shaky little breath and asks, “Can you show me how to work the washer before you hop off to your- your day job?” Stutter included free of charge.

 

There’s a few more seconds of labored breathing (is… is Wade doing that ‘pervert on the phone’ noise on purpose?) before the red-suited man seems to slump a little. _“Fi_ _iiii_ _ine._ Ugh. We thought you were s’posed to be _smart,_ Petey.”

 

Face wrinkling in barely held back irritation, Peter shuffles over to the washer and dryer (or ‘dry-ee’, which is a name that sometimes serves as the reason for Peter’s deepest, darkest desires for violence) where Wade begins to jab and poke at seemingly random buttons.

 

Most concernedly, the two machines don’t seem to make any noises alluding to their working status, despite the treatment Wade is giving them.

 

A harried Peter counts to ten in his head.

 

If Wade is delusional enough to think that two _broken_ machines have been magically working this entire time, Peter is going to… to… Do something irrational and stupid.

 

Probably yell at a dangerous, immortal assassin and either get the boot or get the knife in the night.

 

“So, mizer rocket scientist,” Wade clicks their teeth a few times. Peter kind of wants to click his teeth back. “You push this button to get it started – “

 

“What button?” Peter interrupts, honestly confused. Wade hadn’t made any specific movements towards any dial, button, or strange stain that he’s pretty sure is actually the lint sheet.

 

“ _This_ button!” The mercenary, once again, does not point to any button whatsoever. Maybe they’re pointing with their eyes, the ones that Peter _cannot see_ through their ridiculous mask.

 

“ _What? Button?”_ May the Lord have mercy on Peter’s soul, which is soon to be stained with the blood of his most annoying victim yet.

 

A dial pops off. _“That_ button!” Wade makes motions at Peter as if they’re saying ‘are you stupid?’ as they rapidly shove the dial back into place.

 

“Oh, for fucks-” _Deep breath, deep breath!_ “Just, just stand over there, and I’ll figure it out eventually -”

 

“Oh, no no no, Double P,” Deadpool hip-checks Peter out of the way, who stumbles and nearly falls out the still open back door, “you called on _me,_ despite how you’re supposed to be extra afraid of me now – yes, yes I did plan this, shut up – to come teach you how to tame these wonderful beasts, so teach you how to tame I shall!”

 

Deadpool ‘teaches’ Peter how to ‘tame’ the washer and dryer. It’s not as complicated as he thought (or was assholeishly lead to believe), no more so than your everyday coin laundry. Deadpool was just being purposefully obtuse.

 

Now, however, the mercenary is leaning their hand onto one of the only semi-clear spaces on the kitchen counter (geez, Peter needs to figure out a plan to organize this shit sometime soon, it’s seriously a hazard) as they quietly observe their flatmate load up the washer with that week’s dirty clothes.

 

Peter surreptitiously glances over when he bends down to throw a cupful of… _86% biodegradable_ detergent in (cool), noting how astringent it is to be open-faced in the gaze of someone with a mask on. He wonders if this is how people feel when they interact with him as Spider-Man – like you have no idea what could happen next, what with no face to read emotions from.

 

Deadpool’s fingers tap impatiently.

 

Despite there being no face, Peter’s itchy spidey-senses work _juuuust_ fine.

 

“If you’re done here, you can leave,” Peter offers, except it comes out less like an offer and more like a bland say-so. He winces slightly to himself, closing the washer door with an unskilled _bang_ in the conversational silence of the room.

 

He thinks he hears a cat’s meow from somewhere. He tries to ignore it.

 

“How come when I go camp out in the tub with somebody else’s blood all over the floor and my own limbs flopping everywhere like half-price salmon,” Deadpool drawls, still looking highly strung up about something, “you start acting like I’m just gum on your shoe instead of the big bad monster down the hallway.”

 

Peter nearly drops the laundry basket as he’s about to place the empty plastic on top of the washer.

 

‘Because I _know you,’_ is what he doesn’t say. He’s not sure he would even say that as Spider-Man to Deadpool anymore, because he apparently doesn’t know Deadpool as well as he thought he did. Not mentioning the whole fiasco with Riva Upp and SHIELD… this basically immortal mutate was apparently so lonely that they would waste time trying to find a ‘normal’ roommate, even though they’re so weird and unmanageable that they run everybody off within a week or less.

 

Deadpool cracks a knuckle.

 

Until now, that is.

 

“I kind of miss that little lamb-like attitude you had going on last week.” Deadpool draws his gun and strokes it with a dirty rag from somewhere within the counter’s many piles of crap. “Why can’t we go back to that? I wanna see you crawl out more windows, it was great entertainment.”

 

“Because uh,” Peter has to swallow some _emotions_ blocking his throat, “because at least now I know- I suppose you can’t be hiding much else, right?”

 

Deadpool freezes in place.

 

Peter tries not to give into the urge to fling himself under the table, nervously eyeing the gun still.

 

A strange snuffling noise comes from behind the mercenary’s mask. Peter almost leans closer to listen better, but then he realizes…

 

“Are you _crying!?”_

 

Another wet sound. “Am I… am I that uninteresting? I mean, _fuck,_ he’s right…” They holster the gun and limply drop the towel to the floor. It’s so dirty that it looks like it belongs down there. “Do I have anything else going for me? Yes? No? _Chimichangas_ – yea, you’re right, that did make me feel a little better...”

 

“If you’re crying, I’m leaving,” Peter decides, hurriedly walking out the back door and onto the crumbly asphalt of the never-finished backyard stairs.

 

His socked feet hit cold ground and he shivers, but he keeps walking. Maybe if he ignores Deadpool hard enough, they’ll go away and stop trying to talk at him. And crying! Crying at him is also not allowed!

 

But luck must not be with him today (or maybe his Parker Luck is), because he can hear the way a snotty Deadpool yells out a desperate, “Noooo, Peter, come back!” as booted feet tromp down out of the house to follow him.

 

Peter nearly curses out loud (not that there’s any shortage of cursing coming from him when Deadpool’s around), because now he can’t exactly go crawling into his bedroom window like he planned when Deadpool is fully capable of reaching up and dragging him back out. Or making fun of him for going back on his “this is the last window I’m crawling out of” declaration so quickly.

 

Being physically dragged and being verbally made fun of are obviously both on the same level.

 

A cat meows.

 

Peter stops.

 

Deadpool stops nearly right on top of him.

 

A gray and white furball is anxiously curled in on itself near the end of the yard where the ugly smatterings of thin grass ends and the old broken grey road begins.

 

Further out, a giant crater sits, engulfing half a broken house. Most likely from this year’s latest national disaster.

 

But Peter doesn’t focus on that part, feeling his heart melt a little bit at the sight of a stray, docile animal.

 

“ _YOU!”_ Deadpool screams, pointing an arm right over Peter’s head towards the faux-chill cat.

 

Peter’s melted goo-ball heart nearly leaps right out of his throat.

 

His spidey-senses smack him upside the head, causing him to shift gears from ‘get away from Deadpool’ to ‘get Deadpool away from the cat.’

 

Deadpool’s already maneuvering around Peter to presumably get within reach of the cat, which has eyes as round and as milky yellow as the moon.

 

It gazes into his soul.

 

How can he say ‘no, I won’t do whatever it takes to protect you’ to a face like that?

 

So Peter does the smart thing and grabs the nearest trash can, blindly tossing it into Deadpool’s stomach and knees.

 

They cry out from the unexpected attack, finally startling the cat enough to send it pelting across the yard and into one of the nearly-finished construction homes at the other end of the street.

 

While the cat-hater is still rolling around on the ground, cussing at the utterly confusing trash can blocking them from easily standing up, Peter scurries his way around the angry body and leaps up into the kitchen, slamming the door behind himself in one go.

 

The washer chimes pleasantly. It’s done with the first cycle.

 

Deadpool doesn’t come back into the house. Peter considers this a win, and goes to get ready for work.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Peter figures that he has less of a chance of being kicked out (or murdered in his sleep) if he does all the laundry without being asked for today. He hopes they’ll set up an actual schedule later, though, because he barely got any time to shoot photos before he realized it was almost the evening and he had four loads of wash left, and had to hurry home amidst Mr. Jameson’s yelling about ‘work ethic’ and ‘teenagers and their little girlfriends’ even though Peter is several years past being a teen.

 

He’s saved Deadpool’s clothes for last, since he was sorta hoping the guy would get home and do it themself, but no such luck. He tells himself that he doesn’t care, but it sort of reminds him of doing both his and his aunt’s laundry every Saturday. Only he actually _wanted_ to do her laundry for her.

 

Still – if he can keep Deadpool from smelling like roadkill and/or leaving their nasty clothes all over the place like they seem prone to doing, he’ll count it as a cause worth fighting for.

 

This stellar show of logic leads to him being in this situation:

 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the open dryer, holding up one of Deadpool’s dresses when the merc walks in the door at ten o’clock at night.

 

Peter almost drops the dress – it’s pretty, he guesses. A dusky blue color with white embroidery – but instead he attempts to calmly fold the rest of it and put it back in the rectangular laundry basket.

 

His life decides to not allow this to go so simply.

 

“ _Ooooo!”_ Deadpool coos, slapping hands to the sides of their face as they dance their way over to the kitchen, acting like they weigh a hundred pounds less than they actually do. “Do you like that one? I didn’t even wait to go for it on sale, I got it when it first came out, full price and everything. Those sale ladies were _sooooo_ jealous, they all ran away and told their friends!”

 

No, Peter thinks as he looks at Deadpool, they were probably just seriously afraid of you.

 

“Ah,” he says instead. And then he doesn’t say anything else because it’s too long of a pause and now it’s awkward.

 

To their credit, Deadpool doesn’t really seem to mind. They carelessly tear off their mask and throw it onto the couch, stepping on the remote so that the TV turns on to a random channel that’s startlingly loud in the previously quiet house.

 

Deadpool is home, and the whole neighborhood (if there even is anybody in this neighborhood) can hear it.

 

He comes waltzing back into the kitchen, and stops to squint at the back door like he’s waiting for something to happen.

 

Thankfully, nothing does, so Peter clears his throat. “Are you mad about this morning?”

 

“What about this morning?” Deadpool turns on his heel and peers down at Peter, eyebrows surprisingly emotional despite having no defining hair. It’s more like a… squiggly line of muscle.

 

Peter makes a face. “I threw a trash can at you.” _And then you left and made me think I was going to die_ _a violent, untraceable death_ _when I least expected it_ _._

 

“Oh, that? Don’t even worry about it,” Deadpool reassures, accidentally knocking something that looks like a used pie tin off the counter as they lean over onto it. “You were just protecting your widdle cat friend – can’t fault you for it. Not too much, anyway... but seriously, if you ever throw a trash can at me again or whatever the shit you thought you were doing, and there are no heinous kittens around to be rescued by valiant steeds such as yourself, I’m going to be super mad.”

 

“’Super mad’, huh?” Peter folds a shirt with one of those fake ‘sexy bodies’ on it. This one has an almost-naked zombie torso with a purple bra. No guessing about which one of them owns _this_ piece of work. “Will you be ‘super mad’ if I tell you to do your own laundry next time?”

 

Deadpool sighs loudly, throwing their body weight over to the cabinet, where they pull out an open bag of chips. “No, but I _will_ complain about it. Doing laundry every week is for _squares,_ _”_ says the person who pre-dated laundry days.

 

As his housemate crunches down on some undoubtedly stale chips, Peter wrinkles his nose, grabbing the laundry basket as he stands up. _“Doing your laundry so infrequently that your house permanently smells like a compost pile_ is for squares,” he shoots back as he passes Deadpool.

 

Deadpool absently follows him out of the kitchen and into the living room, mocking his words by repeating them in a high voice as he goes. On the TV is a cartoon Peter barely glances at before he turns into the hallway.

 

The sound of a body flopping onto the couch echoes throughout the darkened home (the hallway light is broken, and the light outside of the three semi-circle of rooms is just plain gone altogether) as Peter shuffles his way to the left, towards Deadpool’s room.

 

Only he stops just before entering. The musty smell is startling and different and _unfamiliar._

 

Why did he almost walk straight into Deadpool’s room again?

 

Peter takes a slow step back, giving the room a perfunctory glance (it’s too dark to see details, but he remembers the starkness of the gun on a bed with no sheets or pillows) as he gently places the basket full of Deadpool’s folded clothes outside of the room.

 

This isn’t Aunt May’s laundry, he has to remind himself. He can’t just let himself into Deadpool’s room whenever he wants.

 

He tiptoes back to the living room in something of a daze. He can’t ever remember not living with his aunt and uncle, but he’s pretty sure that he must be breaking some kind of social rules just by the act of living in this house, with this person.

 

Casual supposed ‘stranger’ roommates, even as weird as they may be, aren’t supposed to do each other’s laundry, are they?

 

Or hit them with trash cans just to get away for five seconds?

 

Or leave food for them in the fridge with their ‘name’ on it?

 

Or plan to clean up their messes and buy binders to organize all their documents (or whatever that tornado of paper currently hoarding the kitchen table may be)?

 

_Right?_

 

On the couch, Deadpool is spread across the ugly green cushions with his eyes closed, mouth half open, big red boots partially taken off, and bag of chips slowly listing towards the floor.

 

Peter’s almost dead certain that you’re not supposed to feel this unsafe with your roommate, either.

 

His hands clench too tightly into fists, so he hides them in his hoodie pocket (a pilled black thing that he doesn’t even remember packing) as he stares at the mercenary, who casually snoozes in front of a TV with a children’s cartoon playing.

 

For a split second stretching into an eternity, nothing but toe-curling _abhorrence_ fills his body.

 

They don’t even give a shit about anything, do they? Peter, as Spider-Man, has tolerated Deadpool’s eccentricities many a time, and even once would have called the mercenary something like a friend (despite how disapproving literally everyone and their mother was), _but..._

 

Wade huffs out a soft breath, and Peter feels himself calm somewhat, body relaxing.

 

He closes his eyes to match his housemate’s and stagnates in the middle of the living room, back turned towards the large set of windows that they usually keep partially covered with faded green (yes, _that_ shade of green) curtains.

 

...but ever since _that night,_ _with Riva Upp…_

 

No, no – he just can’t think about it anymore. Not right now.

 

After an undetermined amount of time lost in his mind, Peter opens his eyes slowly.

 

Deadpool’s eyes are open, too.

 

His spidey-senses startle, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone, dropped off a cliff and leaving Peter feeling dangerously bereft as Deadpool snorts at him and gets more comfortable on the couch.

 

“If you want the remote, you’re going to have to fight to the death for it,” they tell him casually, turning the volume up a few more notches.

 

He has no reason not to believe them, so he quickly scampers past the couch and back into the kitchen.

 

Breath heavier than he’d like it to be right now, Peter moves over to the (barely) clean space he made where he keeps his microwave-safe mugs and his packets of chocolate powder.

 

He mechanically makes his mug of chocolate, wishing that he could fix some food instead, but ultimately and regretfully knowing that there’s nothing in the fridge nor the freezer _to_ fix. All they have is dry food, and that pretty much extends and ends at what’s left of Deadpool’s chip stash.

 

A loud crunch filters in through the living room.

 

...Which Deadpool is currently horfing.

 

Sighing slightly, he pours his mix and leans next to the microwave mounted up on the wall in between some (half-broken and crowded) cabinets, staring out the kitchen window and seeing nothing but lights from far-away houses and businesses.

 

A cat’s pair of light-reflecting eyes meets his from somewhere in the yard.

 

He pretends he doesn’t see, retrieving his warmed hot chocolate from the microwave.

 

He nearly drops it a second later when Deadpool’s voice carries loudly through the walls, “Hey, chocolate Easter bunny! Can you get me the phone pretty pretty please? It should be under the table somewhere in there.”

 

With a little bit of hesitance, Peter pokes his nose under the table.

 

Well, how about that. The house phone really _is_ under the table. He picks it up, placing his mug of chocolate on top of a stack of papers that looks the sturdiest, and pauses just before the living room.

 

“Why?” He asks, suspicious.

 

“So I can call us some hookers -”

 

“ _Sex_ workers -”

 

“- so I can order us some food, obviously, what the fuck else would you use a _landline_ _for_ _?”_ Deadpool scoffs, waggling one gloveless hand in the air as if he could summon the phone from a meter away, “You got a problem with that? You have a thing against _free pizza_ or something that I should know about?”

 

Peter breathes in deeply as he feels himself flush in embarrassment, mumbling a quiet, “no,” as he ferries the phone over to Deadpool’s loose hand.

 

When the task is done, he retrieves his mug and only briefly pauses in the living room to answer a question about what kind of pizza he’d like (garden, if you must know) before he’s off to his room, shutting the door and locking it with a _click._

 

.

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.

 

By the time next Monday rolls around, Peter’s unearthed from the disaster zone that is the kitchen: an actual bread box (to which he promptly bought bread for), a packet of ties and clips (clipped all of those disgustingly stale chip bags closed), a dish rack (that he has no clean dishes to dry on), pest kill (placed that in the corners of the kitchen. Found a small colony of roaches. Screamed into fist and ran out of the house), and figured out that the counter tops are actually a knock-off kind of fake granite.

 

Interesting stuff.

 

He’s not fully committed to _actually_ cleaning any part of the house yet, though. He’s only been here for two full weeks, and he doesn’t quite feel at home. He’s not sure he’ll _ever_ feel at home.

 

Is this what it feels like to suddenly lose your childhood home (and parents, kinda); to move in with someone you may or may not regard as one of your current greatest enemies?

 

Because it sucks.

 

Wade’s singing loudly in the shower again. He apparently falls down, too, because there’s an almighty crash and a scream. He goes back to singing barely ten seconds later.

 

Peter drags his hands down his face.

 

It really, really sucks.

 

Stuck in his own little bubble of loneliness, grief, and regret, Peter doesn’t notice when Deadpool, fresh from their disaster shower, stops abruptly at the entrance of the kitchen.

 

“Uhh, hey Petey,” says the person who was told not to call him ‘Petey’ but does it anyway, “thought you were chilling in your bedroom. Your door was closed and stuff.”

 

Peter lifts his gaze from where he was pressing his forehead against the bottom of the vibrating washer, pressure stimming his stress away, and opens his mouth to say something like, “where’s your dirty clothes?”

 

Only the words never come out.

 

Deadpool’s wearing… _something._ It’s terribly bright, almost blinding. There’s a lot of skin – which basically means a lot of scars and almost-open wounds going on.

 

It’s booty shorts and a crop top with a rubber ducky visor.

 

Deadpool wheezes. It’s enough to get Peter to look up into their face, where he sees acute distress. “I’m working out. These are my workout clothes.”

 

Peter blinks twice. Almost contemplates closing his eyes fully and rolling where the bumpy floor may take him. “It’s- it’s fine, I really, really don’t care what you wear, whatever makes you happy -”

 

“You care about what makes me happy?” It’s not a nice question – it’s one full of sharpness and sarcasm.

 

Peter glares at them. “Where are your dirty clothes? You said you’d wash them. I’m not doing it for you again.”

 

Unsaid: you’re not intimidating me into cleaning up your shit again.

 

Deadpool groans, but wanders off to (hopefully) go get their clothes.

 

While they’re gone, the washer beeps. Peter’s last load of wash is done and ready to be put in the dryer, but Peter hasn’t folded the clothes already in the dryer yet, so he’s got a ways to go before that happens.

 

First, however, Peter has to use the bathroom, so he goes to do just that. As he passes Deadpool’s room, he notices that the mercenary has disappeared somewhere.

 

He tries not to roll his eyes too hard.

 

Going back to the kitchen greets him with a surprise.

 

Said surprise: Deadpool folding Peter’s clothes.

 

As a double whammy, Deadpool’s sitting on a chair that hadn’t existed in the kitchen before. Peter tries not to be so confused that he can no longer function, sidling into the kitchen and looking around like there’ll be a hidden camera somewhere.

 

As he observes, he notices that his roommate is actually quite adept at folding clothes – moreso than Peter, anyway.

 

Someone… _important_ once told Peter that, if he had any defining traits, one of them would be ‘folds clothes ugly.’ And they turned out to be very, very right.

 

After a while of (dare he say companionable – and he doesn’t dare, because it’s actually _terribly tense_ _)_ silence, an idea begins to form in Peter’s head. It’s such a compelling idea, in fact, that he begins to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet with excess energy.

 

“I have a proposal, uh, about the laundry,” Peter says in his best impression of a person who knows how to negotiate, “If you dump all of your clothes in one spot that I can easily find, and if you fold the dry clothes – if! If your hands are clean – I can make sure everything gets washed and transferred to the dryer -”

 

“Dry-ee.”

 

“ _\- dry-ee,_ before it goes moldy.”

 

Deadpool hums and, miraculously, appears to be considering it. Peter decides not to let this momentum go to waste.

 

“Also, can we move laundry days to Saturday or Sunday?” He continues to propose. “I get that you made it on Monday because of uh… Issues… But don’t you think it’d be more productive if we saved it for the weekend? Now that I’m settled and staying, and all...”

 

With the mention of this apartment’s awful tenant track record, all momentum is lost. Deadpool snorts in an ugly and brutal way, something like anger overcoming his face.

 

“I can’t believe he still wants to stay here...” They mutter deeply to themself, throwing a pair of Peter’s sleeping shorts down.

 

“Are you _mad_ that I’m staying?” Peter questions a bit incredulously.

 

“No! Yes! _Arrgh!”_ Wade kneads his forehead and glares up under his hand over at Peter. “Don’t put words in my mouth! I get enough of that from myself, thanks _very_ much.”

 

Peter, in turn, tries not to be intimidated, letting his own anger fold over him like sticky dough. “I know you’ve got enough money to get any apartment you want, no roommate required, I’m not _stupid_ Deadpool. Yet Ms. Bland said you’d still put out ads for open rooms. Why do that if you’re just going to get frustrated when one of the- one of _us_ survives all your, your _bullcrap_ and finally stays?”

 

There’s a ringing silence that’s broken by the ever-present TV. A tinny voice shouts about mutual respect and communication in a fit of unknowing irony.

 

Wade reaches down, picks up Peter’s last article of clothing, and folds it. “You know what, peaches and lean? You’ve got yourself a deal.”

 

Peter mouths ‘peaches and lean?’ to himself while Deadpool stands up with the basket of Peter’s folded clothes. It’s full already, since it’s a small basket.

 

They pat the dryer and coo at it. “I didn’t think you had the right temperament to truly tame _dry-ee,_ anyways. This is just best for the both of us.”

 

Peter tries not to get offended at that, because he sincerely _doesn’t care_ about ‘dry-ee’, and the two pass each other in the kitchen like space satellites as Deadpool walks off with the basket and Peter empties the wet clothing from the washer and prepares for another load.

 

Despite the whiplash of the situation, Peter has enough sense left to listen through the wall to make sure Deadpool doesn’t open his bedroom door. Hopefully, they’ll do what he did a week ago – place the basket outside the respective bedroom, and wait for the owner of the clothes to deal with it.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

When it was just Peter and May, either inside a house too big or an apartment too small, they would both look out for each other in little ways, whenever they could spare.

 

One of those ways was making sure to leave lots and lots of (fresh-ish) leftovers for the other to pilfer whenever they got home. Despite Aunt May’s insistence that she didn’t need two incomes to run a household, Peter still got a job right under her nose (or maybe not, since she was a very perceptive person, who also had the task of unknowingly raising _Spider-Man)_ , and they would sometimes miss each other by mere minutes going in and out the door (or window, in Peter’s case.)

 

Peter’s still not out of this habit, which used to cost him money when he was living alone in whatever apartment or couch he could nab; food would go to waste because he just wasn’t home to eat it. Now, however, all that food he makes gets eaten. And then some, if Wade really really wants take-out or Insomnia Cookies that night for whatever the reason.

 

Today, Peter went to The Bugle and asked for different hours. In a very long-winded and shouty way, JJ asked why. Peter said “I’m going back to college”, and half the office celebrated and patted him on the back, since they knew his aunt had died because they all pretty much still treated him like he was fifteen and the local pity bucket.

 

JJ got a little red in the face, but he, too, patted Peter on the back, and once again, in a long-winded sort of way, told Peter to go get an education, and to not worry about sporadic hours.

 

Then again, JJ also compared Peter going to college to Peter being ‘in high-school again’, so it wasn’t all that grand.

 

Now Peter’s flopped on the couch in the living room, snoozing. It’s been several hours since he got home, but he’s extra pooped because he went to his first class today (it was level 200 calculus, which was fun if not also mentally exhausting) after a year of not having been in any classes at all.

 

He has no idea what time it is, but he’s pretty sure Deadpool’s been trying to breathe down his neck for at least the past five minutes.

 

It’s not really working, whatever it is they’re trying to accomplish, because Peter’s happy being a couch pancake right now.

 

“Hey… Hey…. What the hell do you think you’re doing, slick?”

 

“...Sleeping,” Peter answers with a tired delay, face smashed against the couch pillow. It’s actually a pillow he found in the hall closet, washed, and then stole for himself, but now it’s the official ‘couch pillow’ for as long as it survives in this hellish household.

 

“I can see that,” Deadpool grumbles. “But here? Now? _Why!?”_

 

“...This isn’t _your_ bed,” Peter complains, still not moving. “I don’t see why you’re so bent up about it. Just go sit somewhere else.” Like the mysteriously appearing kitchen chair.

 

Deadpool makes a prolonged, frustrated noise that is almost scary in and of itself. Peter isn’t inclined to turn over and see it be made. “No, it might not be my bed, but it is the _exact spot_ I sit in everyday and watch the evening Golden Girls re-runs!”

 

Peter groans, hiding his face in the pillow.

 

He’s going to have to move, isn’t he.

 

When he doesn’t immediately jump up from the hideously colored couch, apologizing profusely and promising never to interrupt ‘Golden Girls’ time ever again, Deadpool makes another huffy noise and circles the furniture like a vulture.

 

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t get up.”

 

Peter is a couch pancake.

 

“I’ll get my sword! It’s long and pointy and _dangerous!”_

 

Peter is a couch pancake that grunts.

 

Another pattering of socked feet as Deadpool presumably circles once more in frustration. “I’ll pick you up like a pretty little princess and toss you right out the door.”

 

That has Peter getting up faster than anything else did, causing him to blindly launch himself in the direction of the kitchen, glaring over his shoulder at a smug Deadpool.

 

“You’re a jackass,” Peter declares.

 

Wade responds by flopping on the couch, adjusting his crotch in between his bright purple sweatpants, rubbing his feet all over the spot where Peter’s head used to be, and snorting in Peter’s general direction as he turns on the TV to the exact volume of ‘way too fucking loud.’

 

Scoffing, Peter clutches the pillow he accidentally sticky-hands’d to himself while he was bouncing from the scene of the crime. He sets it down on the table in the kitchen, knocking over a pile of paper in the process and doing absolutely nothing to clean up the mess because he’s _petty._

 

He opens the fridge to peruse. There’s still half a shepard’s pie with a Deadpool sticky-note on it, and Peter assumes it’s untouched because the mercenary got home and immediately decided that kicking their roommate off the couch was in top order, not taking the time to check the kitchen for food.

 

Peter clutches the fridge door almost too hard. It creaks in warning.

 

Ungrateful _asswipe._

 

He sighs his anger out in one great gust, reaching back into the fridge to unveil what Wade must’ve bought in an act of coherency while visiting the grocery store (something they do infrequently) – a ready to eat, bells and whistles salad.

 

Peter looks at it from many angles. He feels like a field scientist who just discovered a new species of insect, except it’s kind of freaky and he secretly wishes it didn’t exist at all.

 

Shrugging, he mixes all the packets together and ends up with a giant super-salad that barely fits in its original packaging (they don’t really have any tupperware as far as Peter’s found, so everything has to be eaten as it’s made or re-sealed in its old box via creative uses of tape and/or bag clips.)

 

Even so, Peter’s never really been that big on salads, especially not semi-fresh ones that spent who knows how long on a store shelf (and especially _especially_ not when _the bane of his existence_ is palling around in the room next door), so he has a little over half left over.

 

He’s slapping another Deadpool sticky-note on it and calling it a day when Deadpool comes flying around the corner, shouting, _“I knew it!”_ and scaring the absolute shit out of Peter.

 

Choking, “You knew _what!?”_

 

Deadpool points an accusing finger at him, moving closer, which is _not okay._ “You’re not leaving me _trash_ with my face on it, you’re leaving me _food_ with my face on it!”

 

Peter flails a little bit, mostly to try and ward off the advancing cat _and_ food hater _._ “Well, I mean- do you _want_ trash!? Is that what you’re trying to tell me -”

 

Meowing.

 

“I dunno, maybe?” Deadpool turns in a tight little circle. One of the Golden Girls laughs on the TV, and it fills the house. “Why the hell are you putting my face – my beautiful, sanctimonious face – on perfectly good food that you aren’t eating? Is this your way of trying to slowly poison me, because poisons in my experience do not work -”

 

“No, what the hell!?” Shouts Peter, incredulous and angry. “Why would I try to _poison_ you!? And I’ve only got one stomach, I can’t eat a giant family-sized tray of lasagna by myself, that’s just impossible -”

 

“Well then why the fuck do you buy so much food and leave it all over the place!?”

 

A cat meows insistently.

 

“Because I’m just used to it, okay!? I ‘m used to making food for other people and now those people are _gone -”_

 

“Oh, _yawn._ Save your sob-aliscious backstory for an award winning comic -”

 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, I thought we were talking about how awful I am for leaving you leftovers that aren’t _rotten_ or whatever bullshit a sick freak like you wants out of me -”

 

“’Sick freak’? Isn’t that like a level down from ‘jackass’?”

 

“You are a piece of -”

 

A cat _yowls._

 

The two humans whip around.

 

“ _WHAT!?”_ It’s not Deadpool that shouts, it’s Peter.

 

The cat sitting on the outside of the kitchen’s window sill chirrups triumphantly at getting their attention.

 

Deadpool begins to shake with a fury he wasn’t showing a moment before, and something inside of Peter shivers, cooling exponentially.

 

With half a brain functioning, Peter launches himself bodily at Deadpool right as the mercenary begins to move towards the kitchen’s back door.

 

With a startled shout, they go down. Peter locks his thighs at the bottom of Deadpool’s ribs and squeezes, adding only a hint of spidey-strength, knowing that he’ll need it if he wants to get the upper hand for any longer than a mere second.

 

Except it turns out he barely needs a mild amount of strength, much less powers of the spidery-proportion.

 

In a great surprise to Peter, Deadpool doesn’t immediately smash the meat of their hand into Peter’s chin or nose. They don’t go for any of the weak spots they would usually go for. They don’t whip out a surprise gun or knife or grenade. They don’t even shout or throw Peter off. Instead, all they do is place their hands on his shoulders and push him backwards, as if trying to guide him someplace that isn’t planted heavily on their chest.

 

In fact, Deadpool’s laughing lightly. It’s a deep sound that isn’t very nice; it’s not a funny laugh. Spidey-senses warm Peter’s spine in a bad way.

 

“We throwing each other around now?” Deadpool questions, hands curling into the meat of Peter’s shoulders and trying to knock him away once again, which doesn’t work. “I’m sorry to tell you this, sweetie – I know I’m one great hunk of _hunk,_ but I did not sign up for this when I mail-ordered one Bambi with emotional issues, so if you don’t scootch your bootch within record time, I’m going to be _actually_ mad, _ja feeeel me?”_

 

Oh.

 

Oh, that’s right.

 

This isn’t Spider-Man and Deadpool, allies one minute and adversaries the next, duking it out on some unfortunate building’s roof, no strings attached except their failing mental health and their personas to the public.

 

It’s Peter Parker and his _roommate,_ a person who is a mercenary some hours of the day and thinks that _their_ roommate is just some hapless civilian who goes to a journalism job and college and drinks too much hot chocolate.

 

The cat at the window meows fantastically loud, and it startles Peter enough out of his ‘what the hell is going on, who am I, what is our relationship right now even’ confusion that he jerks upwards, smacking his forehead into the table. His couch pillow comes tumbling down.

 

“Oooh, noooo,” Deadpool faux-coos, even as his masked head tracks the cat on the window with a ferocity that really amps up Peter’s spidey-senses, “you can’t call the police on me for that one, okay? That was your fault, not mine -”

 

With a growing lack of sanity, Peter grabs the pillow.

 

He starts hitting Deadpool in the face with it.

 

“I’m not that sorry!” Peter has the fortitude to squeak out as Deadpool lets go of his shoulders to try and ward off the volley of pillow attacks.

 

“Ow, ow, ow, oowww!” They complain, actually trying to dislodge Peter now by twisting back and forth. “Quit, quit, quit it! Oh, this is _so_ not the sexy sleepover pillow party of my dreams!”

 

“You said you wouldn’t get mad if -” Peter falls off his captive log of a roommate, Deadpool finally having the guts to toss the ‘civilian’ they live with to the side in their crusade to silence (possibly permanently) the constantly squalling cat at the window.

 

He doesn’t let them get that far, using his position on the floor to twist his legs around the standing Deadpool’s and holds on tight, stopping them (mostly) in their violent tracks. “You said you wouldn’t get mad if I was protecting a kitten!”

 

They stop moving.

 

The cat doesn’t quit meowing.

 

Peter begins to sweat nervously, keeping his legs and feet wrapped around Deadpool’s as a precaution, even though he fully knows that all the mercenary has to do is reach down and grab him by the throat to end this.

 

The cat _still_ won’t stop fucking yodeling. It obviously has no self-preservation.

 

Hypocrisy, cease thy chattering.

 

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Deadpool stretches his arms and looks down at Peter, all huddled up on the floor, still clutching his ultimate weapon: the pillow. “I guess this means your pussy is safe from me for one more night.”

 

“God, _ew,”_ Peter hisses, extracting his legs from the disgusting man with a cringe, standing up in one go and dancing a few feet away.

 

“I’d apologize but we both know it’s too late, it’s already out of my mouth,” says Deadpool, sounding actually contrite. “I’m for real, though. You can go a-scamperin’ back to your room, and we can uh… Never talk about this again.”

 

Peter, dubious of this sudden tonal shift, peers past Deadpool to look at the kitchen window.

 

The cat is gone.

 

Deadpool’s staring at the floor with a hand on their hip, uncharacteristically silent despite the events of today. If Peter actually knew how to read people’s body language, he’d say it’s almost like embarrassment.

 

That, or they’re trying to hold in their anger and not wallop Peter in the face for shouting at them, pinning them to the floor, and assaulting them, all for a stray animal’s sake.

 

Peter lets out a breath and takes his pillow with him to the edge of the kitchen. He turns back long enough to say one parting thing.

 

“There’s a meat pie in the fridge – don’t let it go to waste.”

 

And then he calmly, coolly, with the utmost poise… runs to his room, locks the door, locks the window, pulls the curtains shut, and shoves his desk chair up under the door handle.

 

And then he calls Harry.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You know how some people say, ‘I have an app for that’? Well, WW says ‘I have a gun for that.’”_

 

“ _W- what? For real? Peter,_ pfft… _I’m trying not to laugh, but it’s -”_

 

“ _He has a vendetta against cats, and I have no idea why.”_

 

“ _That’s- hahahaha, Peter- that’s -”_

 

“ _And a two-fer – he has a secret love of country music. Even though he doesn’t keep it very secret.”_

 

“ _Hahahahaha! Aahahahahaha!”_

 

“ _Hahaha… Living with him is hard, but -”_

 

“ _Hahahahahaaha!”_

 

“ _Geez, Harry -”_

 

“ _Hahahaha!”_

 

“ _...”_

 

“ _Haha- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA -”_

 

“ _...”_

 

“ _...Mr. Parker?”_

 

“ _Hey, Marsha, how are you?”_

 

“ _I’m doing alright. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Osborn is… Not feeling so well.”_

 

“ _It’s okay, I understand. He_ did _say he was trying not to laugh. I didn’t listen – sorry.”_

 

“ _You can call back tomorrow, okay?”_

 

“ _Okay, Marsha. Have a nice night.”_

 

“… _I_ am _sorry, Peter.”_

 

“ _...Yea, me too.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Wade likes to sit on places not meant to be sit upon.

 

Well, to _Peter_ , these places are not seats. He grew up in a household with rules – don’t sit on the table, or the counter, or the stairs, or the floor, that’s a hazard, someone could trip and you could get hurt, Peter, please use a chair, or make yourself useful and help your uncle in the yard...

 

One day, when they both happen to be in the kitchen in the morning, Peter hustling himself in for a quick glass of water before leaving for class. He spots Wade chilling on the table, papers scattered even more, eating something that might be a boiled egg.

 

Unthinkingly, Peter says, “Tables are for glasses, not asses.”

 

“Tables will be for whatever the fuck I put on them.” Then they toss the egg in the air. It falls perfectly into their mouth. They chew on the too-big food, tossing a cheeky grin Peter’s way.

 

It’s so stupidly endearing that Peter almost gets viscerally mad about it.

 

Instead, he rallies up enough sense to do anything but that. “If you’re going to do that, then at least say you’ll let me clean up a bit in here. I know it’s, like, your gross food cave or whatever, but I live here too, now, and I honestly think this place would function much better if you’d just let me bring in a couple of organizational drawers or -”

 

“Done,” agrees Deadpool, way easier than Peter was expecting them to. “You don’t have to try and convince me, Double P – _mi casa es tu casa._ If this place looks too busted for you delicate sensibilities, then you can fix it. _”_

 

There’s nothing more to the conversation, really, so Peter drinks his water and Deadpool eats his… whatever the hell they’re eating, and then they both go their separate ways.

 

Unfortunately for Peter, his ‘separate way’ is right into a fight that interrupts his work day (though thankfully not his morning classes) and lasts all the way into the evening.

 

It’s a tussle with Venom – because it’s _always_ a tussle with Venom, the stalker – except halfway through, Rhino starts causing trouble on a whole other borough, and Spider-Man has to (literally, with webbing) haul ass while dodging and containing an angry symbiote the whole way.

 

(And if he stopped to metaphorically shake his ass to make Venom keep up better, the only ones that have to know are him, the symbiote’s relationship, and possibly whoever had a camera trained on them at those moments. So, potentially: a whole lot of people.)

 

If he didn’t already know Venom’s opinion on Rhino (or, well, technically Eddie Brock’s, but that’s a different can of worms), then he would’ve suspected that the two planned this.

 

But no – it’s just a monumentally shitty night.

 

And it becomes even shittier when he gets home, walking in on Wade fiddling with one of the cinnamon air fresheners that have created a miasma of smell on the second floor for some mysterious reason that Peter physically cannot make himself go to find out about. On the TV is a news report about today’s hero/villain and vigilante activity.

 

On now: how Spider-Man got thrown around by both Venom and Rhino.

 

The camera replays a particularly nasty (but not gory, because they can’t show that on public channels he doesn’t think) part where Venom smashes Spider-Man out of mid-swing, hurtling him towards Rhino, who then punts his body into the nearby building, denting it.

 

Peter automatically reaches a hand up to rub at his no doubt bruised face.

 

“Hey, Petey!” Deadpool calls, not even allowing Peter to slink off to his room as all of their attention focuses of their roommate. “Because of Spidey’s throw-down, ho-down, all the roads are blocked, but I still want food, so… Go get us food!”

 

The smell of cinnamon clogs Peter’s every pore.

 

Spider-Man cries out on-screen. Venom makes gross slurping noises. Rhino laughs horrifically.

 

This is the absolute worst thing to walk in on, Peter decides. And he’s even counting that one time Aunt May found him picking shards of glass out of his thigh while biting down on one of Ben’s old deflated footballs to keep from screaming.

 

Peter shuffles closer to his housemate, trying to hold his breath, but when he puts too much pressure on his injured leg, he sucks one in anyways.

 

“I’ll even let you pick where you get the food from,” Deadpool barters, waving an undetermined amount of money under Peter’s nose, as if that’ll entice him further. “How about that Chinese place you like so much, huh? C’moon – I _know_ you don’t wanna go to the grocery this late at night, and you know I sure as hell won’t go. Take one for the team.”

 

Peter sighs and holds out a hand.

 

Deadpool slaps the bills into his palm, and he goes to pull away, thinking that’s that, but then abruptly he’s being pulled down and forward.

 

The smell of cinnamon almost fades from his mind as a whole as he unwillingly stares into the not-depths of Deadpool’s white mask eyes. He’s painfully aware of how beaten up his face must look, but he can’t seem to offer any sort of verbal explanation, so he focuses on the way Wade’s bare, scarred hand feels like nice pressure against his own, sheaths of paper trapped between them.

 

“Keep the change,” says the man who just spiked Peter’s spidey-senses for seemingly no reason as he lets go not but a second later. “I already called the usual order in.”

 

Without trying to ask for clarification (‘keep the change’? Does that mean they want _him_ to keep the change? Or the person he’s giving the money to? What will happen if he keeps the change but doesn’t let the person keep the change or vice versa?), Peter is chased from the house by the smell of cinnamon.

 

He’s a third of the way to the Chinese place when he realizes that Deadpool just gave him _five-hundred fucking dollars._

 

‘Keep the change’, _his ass!_

 

Shaken, he arrives to find the eatery nearly deserted save for the girl at the cash register (he thinks she’s related to the head chef or owner, since she’s the only one he’s ever seen at the till) who stands politely as soon as he enters.

 

Before she can even welcome him, he’s slapping the hundreds of dollars on the counter and desperately wheezing out, “Keep the change.”

 

She blinks rapidly at him. “I- That’s not the correct amount, I’m afraid and I- I can’t possibly, there must be a rule about this and- and-” She squints at his face. He tries to duck down further, not up to meeting somebody’s eye right now. “Sir? Are you okay? You look a little -”

 

“Please!” His hands are gripping the sides of the counter; he’s got spice on the brain and his right hand burns distractedly. “Just, please. I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I come home- if I come back with this much money!”

 

While the girl at the counter has a few seconds of emotional turmoil, Peter worries.

 

It’s true – what _would_ Wade do? Would they forget all about it and not even check? They _did_ say they called the ‘usual order’ in, but did they say that as a threat? ‘I know what the usual order costs, so if you show up with any more of less than the exact change, you’re in for a world of hurt’? Or, maybe, they’d ask how much change he gave to the person at the counter, because they meant ‘keep the change’ as in ‘give the person at the counter all the change so that _they_ can keep the change.’

 

What would happen if Peter got it wrong?

 

Is Peter looking too hard into this?

 

“Do you need me to call the police?” The girl whispers furtively, and it’s just enough to break Peter out of his mental spiral, although he doesn’t get a chance to respond before she’s leaning forward and speaking rapid-fire. “Are you a minor? Are you being abused? Who is ‘he’? If it’s your boyfriend, I know an anonymous domestic violence tip line -”

 

“Here is your order!” The chef comes bouncing out of the back room, heralded by a cloud of steam and smells that would usually entice Peter greatly, as they smile and set the packaged and bagged food down at the counter.

 

Before the counter girl can motion to the chef that something’s wrong to no doubt stage a highly inconvenient and misdirected intervention, Peter’s grabbed the bags and is out the door before they can so much as react to his repeated shout of, “Keep the change!”

 

Going back seems to take half the time, probably because he’s frantically half-jogging, half-power walking. And also because he was dissociating trying to get to the Chinese place, and might’ve taken a longer route than necessary without realizing it.

 

By the time he’s back at the apartment, he’s floating somewhere between justifiably enraged and despondently having an out-of-body experience.

 

He blows in the door, tosses the food somewhere onto Deadpool’s lap, wrestles the smelly, shitty cinnamon air freshener out of their hands, walks back to the still open front door, and lobs it out so hard that it sails across the street and slams into a street lamp, shattering it in a spray of glass and sparks.

 

Peter slams the door shut, standing there to breathe heavily for _just a moment…_

 

“...Did you keep the change?”

 

“ _Fnnnphhhhh!”_ Peter zips over to the couch, nearly upends Deadpool when he tugs the couch pillow out from under their ass, and screams into it as it’s smashed against his face.

 

As soon as he can, he’s slamming into his room, couch pillow still clutched painfully to his chest as he paces in a circle and breathes loudly, saying not-words of incoherence.

 

Deadpool comes to stand (loudly) outside his closed bedroom door. “So should I give them a one star Yelp review or what.”

 

Peter throws himself face-down onto his bed and cries about it for a good, solid hour.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Peter finds the stray cat hovering on his bedroom window sill, paw toying with the broken side of his window screen.

 

His first instinct is to shoo it away – he can’t imagine the kind of drag-out fight they’ll have if the cat is spotted by Deadpool again – but when he opens the window to do just that, surprisingly, the cat doesn’t make a sound.

 

Pausing, Peter gives the mangy thing a considering look.

 

It’s small. Gray with white spots. Pale yellow eyes that continue to remind him of an autumn moon.

 

It blinks imploringly at him.

 

Before he fully understands what he’s doing, he’s inviting it inside by pulling the screen the rest of the way open.

 

“If you stay quiet, you can visit,” Peter tells it as it jumps down onto the wooden floors like it owns the place, sniffing around, tail lax.

 

It looks up at him with knowing (?) eyes.

 

“This isn’t going to happen often,” he warns it.

 

It does the cat equivalent of rolling its eyes, walking over to his desk chair to twine around the legs.

 

“You’re so young...” Peter says conversationally, even though he’s pitifully aware that one doesn’t _have_ to be ‘conversational’ with an animal. “But I’ve seen your teeth when you do that terrible wailing sound you must consider ‘meowing’, so you have to be off of milk, right?”

 

It yawns at him, proffering said teeth.

 

“Right...” He chews in his nails lightly, sitting quietly on the bed to consider this new creature.

 

It’s an ugly, thin little thing in an unhealthy way. Its coat is dirty and sticky looking, barely clinging to her bones.

 

Despite this, she (Peter’s not about to lift its tail, so he just picked some pronouns out of the proverbial animal hat) holds herself in a haughty way. It’s almost encouraging, to see something so worn down have so much energy.

 

Peter switches from chewing his nails to chewing his lips.

 

Wade doesn’t come into his room. They don’t even knock, or stand in the doorway (not that Peter’s door is ever open anyways.) He bets that, even if he specifically told them to come in and/or left the door open, they wouldn’t. They’d duck out and run, because they avoid strange responsibilities like that.

 

So the hypothesized chance of Deadpool finding an occasional cat in his room?

 

Slim to none.

 

Giddy feelings overcome him as he tracks the cat’s movements in his bedroom.

 

Ben never let him have a pet after the _flea incident_ (don’t ask), and when he and May moved to a cheaper apartment, it didn’t _allow_ pets, so Peter’s never been able to do more than maybe forlornly chase some strays to hopefully pet (and get bitten by a radioactive spider, but that’s a story for another day.)

 

And now, he can have any pet he wants (given that his housemate never finds out...)

 

Vindictive glee fuels him as he excitedly opens his laptop (gotten due to school; used due to nefarious reasons, mostly) and orders a few pertinent cat items: kitten food, a bright orange collar, flea shampoo, and a few medicines like de-wormer. He adds a cheap cat toy for posterity.

 

He’s already mentally cutting expenses and saving up for her first vet visit – she looks too young to be neutered yet, but he’ll be ready for when she needs to be, plus he knows of at least one clinic that neuters for free since he’s taken several ferals there as Spider-Man. He’s under no impression that she’ll refrain from mating with other strays just because she has somewhere to go that’s indoors.

 

“If you come here pregnant, or bring by somebody _you_ got pregnant,” Peter tells her as she’s daintily licking her butthole, “I’m not paying for your college.”

 

She jumps up onto the bed with such light (and, uh… dirty, ew) feet that he doesn’t hear her hit the mattress, only feels it dip with her feather weight.

 

It kind of feels like he’s secretly getting back at Wade for all of the weird shit they put him through, Peter reasons as his new cat hacks up a hairball onto his bed.

 

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“ _PETER!”_

 

Peter’s socked foot slips and he falls forward, chin slamming into the counter with a ferocity that leaves him stunned, though he’s coherent enough to catch himself with one hand before he completely wipes out on the floor.

 

He rockets back to his feet, clutching his sore face, slipping and sliding on the kitchen linoleum at his momentum as he tries to run towards the voice shouting for him.

 

He skids to a stop in front of Wade’s open bedroom door, eyes wildly searching for the reason they were yelling –

 

Deadpool’s sitting on their bed, mostly naked save for a tank-top and some shorts, clutching at their elbow with a marker in one hand.

 

“I drew a smiley face on my blister,” they inform him, too proud.

 

They did, indeed, draw a shaky green smiley face on a round red blister that looks ready to gain sentience and detach from their body to walk the world on its own.

 

Peter clenches his fist and tries to breathe through his nose calmly.

 

It doesn’t work.

 

“ _You… told me -”_ He hops around on one foot, peeling off a fuzzy black sock and tossing it at Wade’s head - _“to wear socks in the house!”_ He violently throws the other one, hitting his mark.

 

Then he forgoes opening his own room door, fearing Vesta (he named the cat after a Roman goddess) might currently be in there, so he steals a pair of Deadpool’s flip-flops, shoves them on his feet (slightly too big, but it’ll do), and goes _flop-flop-flop_ all the way to the front door, which he leaves out of.

 

Goddammit, Wade.

 

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Today, they’ve decided to tackle the disaster-zone that is the kitchen.

 

Or, well, _Peter’s_ decided to. Wade can walk in and walk right back out without so much as tossing a napkin in the bin for all he cares, just so long as they stay out of the way of his bristle brush and his trajectory towards the big trash can, brought in from outside.

 

Actually, as Peter discovered about a week ago as he was staring at the full trash cans they set at the end of the street, this apartment doesn’t _have_ trash-pick up (or at least it didn’t until Peter went and did something about it.) Deadpool sought to inform him of this _after_ the trash cans were overflowing and threatening to invite pests and diseases, of course.

 

Sensing an oncoming tsunami of one of Peter’s tirades (and possibly another giant metal can to the stomach), they offered to call up a friend who owned a truck big enough to haul two trash cans down to the nearest recycling and dumping plant.

 

Peter woke up one day to an empty house, a truck parked in the alley, and keys taped to the kitchen door with a note from someone called ‘Bob’ that told him to use the truck as he liked, and that he (Bob) would be back by eight o’clock PM to retrieve the vehicle once more.

 

It was a surprisingly large time window, so Peter dropped off the trash (and negotiated to get their apartment on the trash pick-up route once again, despite them apparently being the only occupied house on their road) and then went to pick up some groceries with the luxury of an actual car instead of schlepping through the subways or walking.

 

When he got home, he took a good look at the state of the kitchen and decided that, what with all the groceries he just bought, he’s going to need a place to put ingredients together, a place to clean and dry dishes to put that food on, and some space around that fire-hazard of a coffee machine Deadpool adores.

 

So, here he is, piling almost everything that was in that disgusting mishmash on the counter into the trash, putting everything else into a controlled stack where he’d already cleaned an area for making hot chocolate over by the sink.

 

Deadpool comes in once or twice to make mugs of coffee, but even he seems preoccupied enough with something that neither of them talk. He leaves out the back door without saying a word at some point.

 

In the end (which is a good few hours into the evening, but thank god it’s Saturday), Peter has an entire trashcan full of Kitchen Bullshit and a healthy congregation of Kitchen Gems, none of which happen to be dishes to eat off of, so he shoves the Kitchen Gems into the sink for further cleaning for when they _do_ happen to get proper dishes.

 

For now, however, he’s eyeing the cluttered kitchen table with steely eyes.

 

Peter goes back to his room and retrieves all the useless plain plastic binders he bought for college and yet never used, toting them to the kitchen in one go because Wade isn’t here to be skeptical of his weirdly skillful balancing and strength.

 

Vesta was chilling in his room, and he’s still considering perhaps letting her out to wander the house, but he thinks that that might be toeing the line a bit. If Deadpool suddenly comes home, or if Peter trips over her and makes a bunch of noise while trying to hide her again, then he’s going to be in more trouble than he’s willing to deal with today.

 

First things first – Peter moves the trash can to the alley behind the house, giving the Bob’s green truck a considering glance before going back inside.

 

He places a normal, house-sized trash bin next to the table and sits on the only kitchen chair. It has little strips of that awful, awful green colored paint on it, but thankfully it’s basically bare wood in the end.

 

If Peter absently picks at the green paint and flakes it to the floor while he works, nobody has to know but him, the only one who actually uses the broom to its full secret-hiding extent in this house.

 

He’s stolen the green marker Deadpool used to draw faces on their blisters (which is. Disgusting.) because he can’t find any others, and he writes titles and sub-titles on all of the binders as he goes.

 

A binder for bills, a sub-section in that binder for the years, a sub-section for what’s being paid. A binder for legal documents, no sub-sections because he barely understands what he’s looking at. A binder for art; there’s a lot of art, actually. He doesn’t want to think about how it might be Wade’s art, because it’s really _good_ art. A binder for schematics, sub-sections for weapons, sub-sections for the house.

 

He pauses on a schematic for the apartment’s kitchen. It looks normal at first glance – the space to the right of the back door where the washer and dryer are, the sink next to that, the wrap-around counter, the space where the fridge sits, the space under the cabinets where the microwave is mounted, the space under that where the oven is, the counter next to that, the kitchen archway to the living room, the space next to that, the space next to -

 

Where there’s supposed to be an empty space between one corner of the room and the next, which is where the table is shoved, there appears to be a semi-hidden stairway up into the second floor.

 

Peter looks up from the paper at the approximate location of where the schematic says this stairway is.

 

Plain eggshell wallpaper meets his eyes.

 

But… no, he realizes, it’s _not_ just plain wallpaper. It’s got indentations in spots just wide enough for a doorway.

 

Or the entrance to a stairway.

 

Peter trips his way over, accidentally ruining a few of the stacks of paper he set on the floor as he goes, squeezing in between the rectangular kitchen table and the wall in order to feel with his fingers.

 

He’s wearing some really old socks from maybe middle school, so the ratty things let the breeze from underneath the ‘solid wall’ come through to touch his toes.

 

He knocks a few times. It’s hollow. He pushes a bit, and it gives a bit.

 

He eventually pushes so much that it gives with a creak, ripping the wallpaper in an obvious door-shape.

 

Peter cautiously toes it the rest of the way open, dodging and snuffling as dust rains from the ceiling. Everything inside is terrifyingly dark, so he shoves the door open all the way, runs to flick the kitchen light on, then comes back to peer inwards.

 

It’s steep and narrow, dangerously so. It obviously hasn’t been touched in years, most likely due to it being incredibly unsafe. Any prospecting landlord or lady would’ve wanted to make this house as appealing and appropriate to the families that would come to live in it, and sealed this area shut when it became unlawful in a new century with new safety parameters.

 

Still, Peter thinks, as he tip toes up the stairs with no handrail – this house must be pretty old and infinitely interesting if it’s hiding both a secret staircase and an insofar untouched (to him, at least) second floor.

 

Unfortunately, as soon as Peter cracks open the equally as dusty and hidden door at the top of the stairs, he’s hit with a wave of cloying, burning _cinnamon._

 

He practically falls backwards in his haste to escape, harshly shutting both doors in an effort to keep the smell _out_ and _away_ and _contained._

 

Closing the kitchen staircase door actually hides its existence pretty well, considering Peter literally ripped his way through like a thoughtless idiot. He can only hope that Deadpool doesn’t notice the now prominently shaded indentations in the wall.

 

Or maybe they already knew, and sealed it up on purpose.

 

Peter squints at the table as he leans heavily against it.

 

...Nah, he’ll think about it some other day. When he’s not staving off a panic attack with one of those little plastic swords they put in tropical drinks as his only weapon.

 

He absentmindedly begins to pick up the stacks of paper he previously shunted to the side in his haste to discover a new mystery (that didn’t involve anybody getting killed, for once.) He sets them on the table, and is about ready to sit down and finish organizing, when there’s a knock at the back door.

 

Peter barely refrains from doing something like screaming or jumping onto the ceiling or running the hell away. Instead, he stands just to the right of the sink and goes up on his toes to peer sideways out the window.

 

It’s a person wearing green.

 

“Hello? Mr. Wilson?” They say, not even glancing to the right of left to check on their own safety, which seems especially thoughtless to Peter when one is this close to Deadpool’s apartment. Peter balks. “I’m here at eight o’clock, just like I said I’d be.”

 

Oh, shit, it’s _Bob._

 

Peter gapes some more.

 

 _That’s_ Bob!?

 

But he… he looks so normal!

 

Belatedly, now knowing that he’s probably not going to get mustard gas to the face, Peter scrambles to open the door, nabbing the man’s keys off the counter as he goes.

 

“Oh, hello!” Bob greets, like the strangely happy and uncaring weirdo he appears to be. “You must be Petroleum! Nice to meet Mr. Wilson’s live-in service!”

 

Peter blinks, trying to quickly return the key so that this conversation can be over, but Bob seems strangely fixated on his face. “He lied to you.”

 

Bob’s mien drops about a mile and a half. It almost makes Peter feel bad. “He… he what?”

 

Peter leans against the inside of the door jamb, not quite letting Bob come inside. “Wade lied. I’m Peter, Peter Parker, and I live here. We both live here. I pay rent. He pays rent. I’m not his ‘live-in’ anything – I’m just his roommate.”

 

Bob stands there with his mouth open like a fish.

 

This is all so much more emotional than this situation truly warrants, Peter thinks.

 

“He was pulling your leg,” Peter re-clarifies, holding out the key once more, shaking it around. “Thanks for letting me borrow your truck. We really needed those groceries.”

 

And just like that, the smile is back, and Bob finally takes the key. “No problem! Any friend of Mr. Wilson’s is a friend of mine, you know?”

 

No, he really doesn’t know, but he declines to say so as he waves at the overly happy man, who drives off in the big green truck.

 

“What a weirdo,” Peter mutters to himself, closing the back door.

 

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Peter never should’ve said, “You can fold the clothes _if_ your hands are clean.”

 

Because, on this rainy Saturday afternoon, Wade is, for some unfathomable reason, dodging the laundry like one would dodge a loud and obvious train.

 

Peter’s best guess is that, sometimes, Deadpool apparently plum forgets that they don’t live alone anymore, or maybe they forget that Peter’s here, because there’s at least a 35% chance that, when Peter walks out of his room, Deadpool will be in the bathroom.

 

With the door open.

 

Peter really, really doesn’t need to see that.

 

He always remembers to lock the bathroom door (and his bedroom door, and his window, and the bathroom window) whenever he uses it, so there’s no mutual “whoopsie daisy! Pissing with the door open, haha, my bad” going on here, it’s all Deadpool’s doing.

 

Given, this isn’t exactly Peter’s first time seeing a naked body. He’s seen his own aunt and uncle naked, for crying out loud. The internet exists, too!

 

But Deadpool’s bare ass is just not something he ever had a desire to put on that list of ‘naked people: spotted.’

 

Especially not when said man is _using the toilet._

 

They don’t even apologize, mostly because Peter retreats into the night before he gets seen. They just mosey out of the bathroom and off to do whatever big lugs like them do when they have lapses in memory or rationality.

 

Anyway – Peter’s currently stomping through the house, on the lookout for his dear housemate, when he runs smack dab into them using the bathroom.

 

With the door open.

 

Peeing.

 

Again.

 

_Goddammit._

 

Undeterred, Peter sticks his head in and shouts, “Why the hell haven’t you done any of the laundry yet!? We’ve both been home all day! And you and I both know you have fuck all to do here besides watch TV!”

 

In an unpredictable move that will floor Peter for years to come, Deadpool responds by shoving his hands into the toilet water. _As he’s using it._

 

“Uh oh, looks like our water’s shut off,” says Deadpool, in a nonchalant voice, “and I can’t wash my hands, so I guess I can’t fold the laundry today. Oh noes.”

 

Peter grips the sides of the bathroom door jamb so hard that he accidentally digs his nails into the (spider-strength softened) wood.

 

“Well, then I guess _I’m_ going to get around to washing your favorite sundress then!” Peter threatens, throwing his hands up in a faux-casual way. “Since you say the water’s off and all. _Oh noes.”_

 

The sound of peeing stops.

  
Wade slowly looks over their shoulder at him.

 

Needless to say – Wade drops the act like it’s on fire, washes his pee hands _(god why),_ and does the rest of the laundry that day.

 

Peter smugly pets Vesta in his room (and lets one of her little stray friends in to pet also, because he’s living life on the edge today) when he hears the washer and dryer running.

 

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Innocently (and a bit mindlessly) giving the now-uncluttered counters a good scrub, Peter’s spidey-senses tickle in the back of his mind as he swipes the wet and soapy brush behind the coffee maker.

 

He barely has a millisecond to react before thousands of tiny baby spiders are swarming all over the counter, his brush, and his hand.

 

Full on _screaming,_ he finds himself falling backwards, slapping his arms and even frantically shucking off his long sleeve shirt. Minuscule pinpricks of black scatter all over the counter and floor. Panicking, he skitters backwards and nearly up the wall on the opposite side of the kitchen to get away from them.

 

There has been an _egg sac of an unknown spider species_ chilling behind the coffee maker this entire time!

 

Temporarily distracting him from his spider-induced terror is the sound of heavy feet stomping around right above his head, almost as if a person has become unbalanced upstairs.

 

The heavy stumbling abruptly stills. Peter slowly looks upward.

 

Someone’s on the second floor.

 

Deadpool isn’t home (or, at least, Peter assumes they aren’t. He’s pretty sure he saw them leave this morning, in full red gear.)

 

Deadpool _isn’t home_ and there’s _s_ _omeone on the second floor._

 

Peter silently picks up the frying pan next to the stove, side-walking on quiet feet all the way through the living room, over to the stairs, and then up them.

 

There’s nothing he can do to stop the creaking of the old wood, but he hopes that the person upstairs will perhaps hear him coming, so they might leave the way they came.

 

Or else it’s _Clobbering Time._

 

Unless the way they came _was_ the stairs. Then Peter’s going to be incredibly disappointed in himself for not hearing or sensing this earlier.

 

The smell of cinnamon promptly slips its way into his nostrils as he finds himself on the second to top stair, quickly filling his head with a disquieting memory, a phantom touch, a voice, a time where things never felt okay.

 

He unwillingly remembers and older boy who always smelled lightly of cinnamon. Blonde hair, button down shirts, a swimmer’s build on an adolescent’s body.

 

He comes to the abrupt realization, while barely balancing on the landing of the second floor, that _he can’t do this._

 

Cinnamon. He can smell cinnamon, and it’s messing with him, he can see the candy brown goo of the first air freshener from here, and it’s _taunting him._ He almost throws the metal pan gripped in his sweaty hand at it.

 

He _legitimately_ cannot do this.

 

Just as he’s resigned himself to calling the police, or Tony, or Deadpool, or hell even _Bob_ (who left a number taped to the fridge), somebody moves within the darkness of the second floor.

 

No spidey-sense zaps him. He just stands there with his ‘Clobbering Time’ skillet and stares at them.

 

“...Wade?” He calls out on a limb.

 

The silhouette does the same exact noise Wade makes when he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be, and is expecting Peter to throw down any second.

 

“ _Wade,”_ Peter breathes out, leaning against the wall to his left. His right heel stands on air, where the first stair ends. “You… What are you doing up here?”

 

“Uhh… Cleaning up and stuff?” Deadpool answers in such an unconvincing way that Peter imagines violently defenestrating him. “What, did you think the second floor was going to be ‘under construction’ forever? Who did you think was ‘constructing’ it, huh? Ghosts? Did you think it was ghosts, Peter?”

 

“Wade, shut up!” Peter commands, taking in another traitorous breath of cinnamon. _God,_ he needed to get out of here, like, _yesterday._ “I just- I don’t think I even care what you’re doing up here, but I just- can you open a window or something? There’s _too much -”_

 

“You didn’t have to come up here, you know! You’re the one that screamed for some stupid, distracting reason -”

 

“ _Please._ Wade, just- There’s too much _cinnamon,_ I don’t even understand why, there’s too many air fresheners up here! It’s _horrible,_ I can’t _breathe,_ it’s -”

 

Peter makes a weak noise and drops the pan carelessly, pressing his hands to his face in such a way that lights erupt behind his eyelids. The sound of the metal bumping and rolling down the stairs is loud, and lasts for over ten seconds before the pan finally knocks against the front door and ceases to move.

 

Deadpool also makes a weak noise – a distressed wheeze – and they move somewhere close to Peter. “Oh, God, please don’t tell me you’re crying, I don’t know how to deal with that kind of stuff -”

 

“ _I’m not crying,”_ Peter bites out, yanking his hard palms from his eyes. He’s been done crying about something that happened to him when he was an idiotic elementary schooler for years now – he’s not about to start again. “I screamed because I found a spider’s nest in the kitchen and it exploded all over the place!”

 

For some fucked up reason, Deadpool spends a hot second trying to defend that. “Hey, those spiders were just chillin’, making their way in life, probably more scared of you than you are of them -”

 

“Wade! _Fuck!_ I don’t even know why I try to talk to you sometimes.” Peter turns around and begins to stomp down the stairs. If he’s a bit wobbly, he doesn’t care right now. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t use your mask like a garbage pail to throw up in! Do something about those stupid cinnamon bombs or else I will, and I bet you won’t like it if I actually try and find out what you’re doing up there!”

 

Wade doesn’t respond, nor does he follow Peter.

 

Peter is free to grab his hair and spin around and make silly keening noises that he will regret remembering as he diverts his destination several different times – first he contemplates leaving out the back door, then he considers rolling around on the couch, then he wants to hide in his room for the next ten years, and then he decides that a shower is in order.

 

The prospect of a shower – of being _clean_ again – wins out.

 

He vindictively spends an hour wasting hot water and using up the last of Deadpool’s medicated body wash.

 

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Peter wakes up the next morning with sticky eyes, tear tracks on his cheeks, a tellingly wet pillow, and like five cats cuddled up on top of him in a blanket of stress management.

 

He sits up in mild confusion, but like with all meltdowns of the past-trauma-present-trauma kind, he feels too emotionally wrung out to be anything more than 50% there.

 

Dislodging his little kingdom of kittens (one of them – Mooni – is so young that Peter had to run and grab mixable powdered kitten milk the first time she came through his window) and receiving a few sleepy warbles in response, Peter stumbles over to his door and opens it a crack.

 

Startlingly fresh air meets his nose. In fact, it’s so fresh that he swears he can feel the winter-spring air itself seeping inside.

 

...Wait a minute.

 

It _is_ an actual breeze going through the house right now.

 

Peter slithers out of his door, shutting it behind himself (the cats can get in and out via the window) as he surveys the scene.

 

The windows in the semi-circle of rooms are propped open. The bathroom door is wide open, leading to a non-frosted glass view of the alley. Even Deadpool’s bedroom is open, window propped as well.

 

There may or may not be the aroma of doughy breakfast foods dancing from the kitchen.

 

Taking a step forward, Peter nearly jerks his bare foot back when it hits something strangely soft and definitely not wood-like.

 

The green long sleeve shirt he abandoned to its fate of baby spider swarms is sitting on the floor, neatly folded.

 

What kind of fresh hell of a dreamland did Peter walk into!?

 

Pausing, he takes enough time to look down at his own body to realize that he’d gone upstairs the other day in only a plain white ribbed racerback tank. One that he accidentally stole from Wade during a minor laundry mix-up without noticing, but he’s never panicked about it since he’s pretty sure Wade stole some of his socks right back.

 

Lazily pulling the shirt back on his body (it smells washed, actually), Peter meanders through the house, noticing how the front door is also wide open, wind whistling pleasantly. He has a few seconds of watered-down anxiety about that before he stops and stares at the state of the living room.

 

The giant windows are uncovered, and opened in separate panels. They are the source of most of the chilly almost-afternoon wind caressing the insides of the house right now.

 

He had no idea those things even _could_ open.

 

It’s such a conundrum that that’s what he greets Deadpool with while walking into the kitchen.

 

“I had no idea those windows in the living room could even open.”

 

“I know, right?” Says the guy who just masterfully flipped a pancake without breaking (semi-) eye contact with Peter. Whoa. “Bland should’ve mentioned it to me or something beforehand; it feels like a major selling point overlooked. I mean, I know this place isn’t exactly HGTV material, but...” Cue an arm flail. “It screams ‘open floor plan’, and I never heard those words breach her World War I era crusty red lips, not once.”

 

“Don’t you know? We own the schematics for the place.” Peter sits on top of the table (which he can do now because he annihilated the mess all by himself), pulling his feet up and leaning his chin on one knee. He gestures to the labeled binders shoved to one side of the table.

 

“We do?” Wade sounds genuinely confused, pausing in his task to gently slope a few ‘jacks from the pan onto a plate Peter bought at the nearest superstore a few weeks ago. “I’d be damned if I even remember most of what was on that table, you little cleaning whirlwind. You wanna eat any of these?”

 

Peter eagerly nods, and is rewarded with a big plate of about five or six pancakes and a fork. He’s pretty sure neither of them have ever thought to pick up any syrup or honey, so they both sit on their respective not-chairs and dig in like eating’s going out of style.

 

Eventually done, Peter lays back on the table with his legs kicking off the end, head tilted to the left so that he can look out of the kitchen and into the living room, gazing at the open windows and what’s held behind them.

 

“You told Bob that my name was Petroleum,” Peter begins with, “and that I was, like, your housekeeping or something.”

 

Deadpool laughs about it, the asshole.

 

“He looked like I just shot his dog when I told him you lied.” Peter sits up to lean back on his hands, if only to throw an accusing glare in Wade’s direction.

 

“Yea, well, you went all _Die Hard_ on me yesterday.” Wade triumphantly shoves more food into his mouth, not bothering to fully chew and swallow before continuing, “Don’t think I’m not going to painfully mention this, like some kind of ‘regrets from the morning after’ TV special where we socially execute people for all the embarrassing, emotional shit they’ve done. Pony up, baby eyes – I just softened the blow with pancakes and everything.”

 

Peter squints at him. “I’ll accept your shitty attempt to dodge talking about your friend Bob with me, and I’ll give you a point on the Die Hard reference because I, technically, was in a white tank and shoeless. However!” One finger held up means business in Parker World. “Unlike the protag, I did not cry, nor was I smoking or carrying a gun. John ‘baby eyes’ McClane, I am not.”

 

“He does cry a lot in those first two movies, doesn’t he.” Wade strokes their chin. “Tell you what – how about we talk about how there’s no more cinnamon in this house, and how there’s definitely nothing weird about me skulking around upstairs. Huuuh? Sound tempting? Sounds tempting to me. How do you mooks in the good _Noo’ Yawk_ say it? _‘F_ _u_ _ggedabou_ _d_ _it.’”_

 

Peter rolls his neck back until it cracks, sighing indulgently at the butchering of his birth city. “Wait… You said _all_ of the cinnamon? What about the cinnamon buns?”

 

Wade gives a wet snort. “...Taken care of.”

 

He holds a hand to his chest. “But you love those things.”

 

“Yea, well...”

 

An awkward silence ensues that makes Peter want to physically vault himself out the nearest window like it’s a throwback to the first week they lived together.

 

“Whoever’s yard I dumped all that cinnamon shit in better take damn good care of my good sweet buns,” Wade mutters.

 

Peter gasps in a legitimately scandalized way. _“That’s littering!”_

 

A belligerent scoff is his only answer, and he’s annoyed enough that he even swats a bit at Deadpool when he comes closer to grab Peter’s empty plate. “You’re a menace and a half. You _deserve_ a cinnamon bun-less life.”

 

Deadpool laughs at that, sounding honestly tickled, but it’s ended abruptly when they hiss as they slide the dishes into the already soap-and-water full sink.

 

Peter hops off the table and is across the room before he can really think about doing anything but that. “What’s wrong? Was the water too hot?”

 

Wade waves him off and pokes at their other hand, which they attempt to hide behind their bulk while Peter nosily sticks himself to their other side. “It’s no biggie, it’s no biggie! Back, you fiend! If I knew feeding you would open this kind of door, I never would’ve done it!”

 

“If your blisters were giving you trouble, you could’ve just told me to do the dishes.” Peter bumps them to the side, pretending like he cant see Wade’s stupendously surprised face. “S’why I made you fold the laundry; it’s dry, and won’t make your skin all soggy. That and I just fold t-shirts ugly – it’s basically chronic at this point. I’ll never win any clothes folding contests, it’s a fucking tragedy.”

 

Wade hovers around him as he rolls up his sleeves and sticks his hands into the water, grabbing the yellow/green sponge.

 

“If you get your nasty blister liquid on these clean dishes,” he warns, “I’ll invoke the ‘unless to prevent the peril of a kitten’ rule and get mad.”

 

Wade makes an interesting noise in response, leaning on the counter in a way that almost crowds Peter uncomfortably. “You don’t _need_ the kitten rule to be mad, though.” Muttering, “And that’s the _truth.”_

 

“I don’t wanna know what that means.”

 

Peter washes the dishes in a stilted silence, Wade’s breath spreading lightly against his temple and hair in a way that makes him wish he were rude enough to lay a towel over his head to prevent all that moist air from buffeting his skin every five seconds.

 

He begins the task with the hope that, eventually, it won’t be so weird, and maybe he’ll even forget that Deadpool is there, being a goddamn creep.

 

But six minutes later, and nope. It’s still weird as all get out.

 

Then, Wade takes a telltale breath inwards.

 

Peter has the faintest urge to begin yelling and never stop.

 

“You are terrible,” they say, “I mean, you’re good, don’t get me wrong, you’re _so good,_ but you’re honestly so terrible.”

 

“...Thanks.” Peter has no idea what to say to that. He has no idea how to even begin parsing logic through that statement.

 

“Yea, no problem.”

 

Then Wade leans even closer and _sniffs_ Peter.

 

“I swear to fucking god,” Peter says lowly, stiffening, “if you don’t cut this creepy shit out, I will dunk your entire head in this sink, steal all the soap in the house, and lock you out of the bathroom so that you can’t wash the dirty water off of your rotted face.”

 

Wade snorts and finally stops leaning right next to Peter, muttering, “Damn, alright,” under their breath as they wander off to somewhere else in the apartment.

 

Once he’s sure Deadpool has left the vicinity, Peter lets out the breath he accidentally held along with the stiff line of his body, relaxing.

 

He doesn’t know which of them are to blame. It had been a nice morning, despite it being preceded by an awful night. Emphasis on the ‘had’, though. It now feels like one of those days where they don’t necessarily fight, but they don’t speak to each other, either.

 

Oh well. Not like they haven’t survived worse before while in each other’s presence.

 

Just as he’s about to drain the used water and wipe his hands on the towel (Deadpool bought it, and Peter knows this, because it’s got badly designed roosters all over it), he sucks in a breath in shame-faced realization.

 

He’d forgotten that he’d used Deadpool’s soap last night.

 

Deadpool’s soap has a very distinct smell, because it’s amazingly gentle, but also highly medicinal. It doesn’t smell like herbs so much as something sterile, like the lab it was repeatedly tested in for only the most sensitive (and scarred) of skin.

 

They were probably just confused, and sniffed Peter to make sure they weren’t imagining things.

 

Peter stares down into the soapy, dirty water, his reflection wavering and moony-eyed in regret.

 

“I really am kind of terrible...” He whispers to himself.

 

He overwhelmingly feels like a tool, so he shakes his head to dispel the emotions and reaches into the water to yank the plug.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

The cellphone lights up and says that it’s 3:00 AM in big letters. Peter doesn’t know why he’s awake.

 

One moment, he was asleep. The next, he had a feeling like slipping from thin water into clogging oil, and now he’s awake and confused.

 

Confused as to why his phone is in front of his face on the bed, and why it lit up for seemingly no reason.

 

Sound reaches his ears as his breathing comes jaggedly, as if his lungs shrank in size while he was sleeping.

 

There’s cats meowing, scratching, and generally making a hubbub at his closed bedroom door. For some reason, he can’t find the energy to lift his body to shoo them away. Can’t find the drive to worry about his cat-hating roommate.

 

Suffocating.

 

Suffocating on… cinnamon?

 

With a gasp, Peter shoots upwards.

 

The cats have gone quiet. Maybe it’s because they’re no longer in the room.

 

Peter’s phone lights up again. Again, with no notification, no reason to do so.

 

It’s 5:00 AM.

 

When did it become this early?

 

He suffers through a memory of lying frozen on the bed while the cats stream out the slightly-open window, bodies smacking against the wall and the torn screen in a quiet, yet wild frenzy.

 

Standing up from his bed, he’s expecting to be hit with some form of vertigo, but finds nothing but vague unsettlement deep in his gut. It feels almost like before he had his powers; before sensing danger became just another sense.

 

Super powered danger sniffer or no – they’re both senses of survival, and Peter’s sense of survival is telling him that something’s very, very wrong.

 

He moves to the door.

 

Someone’s behind the door.

 

He moves _away_ from the door, an unfathomably scared reason forcing his mind and body to react irrationally.

 

Quick as flies, Peter’s turning and darting to the window next to his bed, only to find it closed, and locked.

 

But… No!

 

Didn’t the cats flee through the window? The cats that came in through the window he left open right before he went to bed at 11:00 PM after a day of half in-person classes, half online classes? He remembers this much, at least.

 

He tries to put his hands on the window latch, tries to use his strength to force it open, telling himself he’ll deal with the consequences of breaking his metal window lock later, but he finds himself so suddenly and viciously _cold_ that all he can do is cry out with a dry throat and hug his seemingly frost-bitten hands to his chest.

 

Despite his pain, he’s still terrifyingly aware that there’s someone at his bedroom door. It’s what makes him stumble away from the coldness of the window, hurt and confused.

 

He can’t even tell how or why he knows this – they’ve made no noises, there’s no warmth of a body, no telltale sound of a breath going in and out or a digestion system stabilizing or a heart beating -

 

Peter can feel his own heart beat through his shirt, where his fingers are pressed tightly.

 

...and yet he smells _cinnamon._ Cinnamon is the only reason, his only insistence that there is someone _horrible_ waiting outside his bedroom for him to come out.

 

He can’t come out. He won’t.

 

The phone lights up.

 

He dives for it, uncaring of the noise he must be making. If the person who is emitting such a- a _stench_ had wanted to sneak in on him, they would’ve done it sooner, or so he tells himself, if only to grasp a few seconds of rationality.

 

Fingers, still so unbearably cold, scramble across the touch-screen. He only gives himself mere moments to debate his options, and he quickly settles on Deadpool’s cell number.

 

After all, there’s a high chance that the man is across the semi-circle, in his own bedroom, unable to wake up and realize that his roommate is in trouble without any danger-alerting senses to guide him.

 

It is not to be.

 

“Yo, Petey, I’m at the store right now. You need something that badly -”

 

“...” Peter breathes into the phone. He forgot to consider whether or not he could even talk like this – cinnamon choking his throat, a pressure in his head, a cold seeping into his room, a potential murderer stalking his door. “...”

 

“Uhh…” Wade makes a few mouth sounds. Like he’s stolen from the snack aisle again and is eating it as fast as he can before he gets caught.

 

That somewhat emboldens Peter, snapping him out of his terror-trance enough for him to chide Deadpool for breaking rules. “Are you stealing snacks again?”

 

“Who’s the guy that’s calling me at five in the morning again? Oh right, it’s you,” they dodge, still eating. “Stop judging me.”

 

Peter huddles down next to his bed, pressed against the wall farthest from the door, grabbing onto a wooden leg for the stability he knows he won’t find right now. “You know what? It- it doesn’t matter, you can steal a hundred bags of chips if you just… Just uh. Put your ass in gear and get back here as soon as possible.”

 

“I was saying – if you need something that badly, it’s gonna have to wait. I’m buying clothes right now,” they tell him, sounding utterly unconcerned.

 

“I really kind of nee- uhm...” _Cinnamon. Cinnamon._ _ **Cinnamon.**_ “I think it’s… pertinent that you get done real quick, okay?”

 

“Pfft, yea, sure, except whoever made the layout on this store must’ve been high, because I can’t fucking find any of the clothes I was looking for.”

 

Peter draws the phone away from his mouth so that he can sob breathlessly into his shoulder for a few seconds before regaining marginal composure. “Well, what store are you at?”

 

“I’m at food.”

 

Peter closes his eyes. Rests his forehead against the sheets. Tries not to immediately begin yelling. “What the fuck is ‘food’?”

 

Wade’s casual chewing turns into angry chewing. “It’s food, it’s just food, I don’t know! Stop interrogating me -”

 

“Well then stop stealing shit and move around and- and- just go to another aisle!” Peter’s breath stutters, hand scrabbling against the rough planks of the floorboards.

 

“Goddamn, fucking...”

 

Wade, presumably, goes to another aisle.

 

“It’s just food! It’ just a bunch of soup -”

 

Peter gives up on not yelling, frustration bubbling over as his fist pounds against the floor in one angry thunk. “What do you mean, ‘it’s just a bunch of soup’!?”

 

“I mean, it’s a bunch of fucking soup! It’s a soup aisle! Just like it was a food aisle and more food aisles and -”

 

“What store are you even in!?”

 

“I’m at the grocery store!”

 

“Why are you trying to buy clothes at the goddamn grocery store!?”

 

“FUCK YOU!”

 

Peter screams wordlessly and almost chucks his phone across the room. It’s only the cinnamon hanging in the air and the person not-breathing their doom at the door that turns his movements and anger sluggish.

 

“Wade, you seriously need to get back here _right now.”_

 

“Why the fuck should I?”

 

“Because there’s somebody in the house, you _asshole!_ You _prick,_ that’s why I called you, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but you didn’t- you don’t _listen,_ you just -”

 

Peter sucks in a breath and lets it out in an aching sob, grinding his forehead into the hard side of the bed’s frame as he shuts his eyes and pulls cinnamon into his lungs.

 

“Are- are you sure you got rid of all the cinnamon?” He asks, desperate. “Are you positive? Are you certain? Because it- it smells, it smells so _rancid,_ and I can’t- I can’t get my window open and _someone’s at my door_ _and they stink, they stink of cinnamon_ _-”_

 

Wade’s saying something loudly into the receiver, but Peter’s cold hand goes limp without his permission as he slides the rest of the way to the floor. It meets his cheek and makes him think he’s laying on ice.

 

Unwillingly, breathing slowing, he closes his eyes, cold to the core and afraid.

 

And then he’s suddenly waking up, warm, feeling kind of nauseous, and staring Wade in the face.

 

“God, what…?” Peter finds himself mumbling, trying to bring a hand to his head but getting it all tangled in the blankets he’s piled under, lounging on his bed. “...Wade…?”

 

“Holy shit,” they murmur, giving him such a concerned look that he almost tells them to knock it off, “thought you’d stopped breathing for a while there.”

 

“...What time is it?” Peter sits up and gazes slowly, confusedly around his room. He eyes land on his window. His closed and locked window. He straightens a bit in shocked focus. “What happened? Did I call you? Was there -”

 

“Yea, yea, you called me...” Wade leans back into the chair from Peter’s desk, which he is just now noticing is placed closer to his bed. “You sure know how to get somebody to light a fire under their ass. Came back and you were passed out on the floor. There were scratch marks all over the bottom of the door, but, uh...”

 

Peter clams up about the scratch marks. He can’t exactly mention ‘oh yea don’t worry about those, it was the cats freaking out so much they tore their claws up on solid wood, no biggie.’

 

“There was no signs of forced entry,” the trained mercenary continues, rubbing the back of their head like they’re embarrassed. “I locked up before I left, and believe me, I would’ve noticed if somebody’d used a lockpick or something. All the windows were closed… Swept the house for anything even remotely cinnamon related.” They shake their head. “Nada.”

 

Peter slowly sits back until he’s propped up against his pillows once more. He can’t seem to look anywhere near Deadpool, stomach twisted into knots from their soft disposition; he can’t understand this right now, so he doesn’t try.

 

“Dusted the floor for shoes or feet or dead skin or dander,” they continue, quite clinically, “did that on all the doorknobs for fingerprints. Nothing but the usual oily swirls of ours.”

 

A fresh breeze rustles its way into Peter’s open room. Wade must have opened up all of the windows again.

 

“Like the boy that cried wolf,” Peter mumbles.

 

“S’cuse?”

 

He finally tilts his head back in Wade’s direction, but can’t seem to look at them head-on. He smiles wanly. “As soon as I yelled ‘cinnamon’, you opened up the house again, even though I know you kind of hate the cold. What, no ‘sorry I witnessed you being pathetic’ pancakes this time?”

 

Wade rocks forward in their seat, expression bordering on incredulous. “I’ve got brownie mix? And- OH!” They shoot upwards, startling Peter as they excitedly pat the air. “Wait here!”

 

They zoom out of the room.

 

Peter blinks in their absence. To stave off the upcoming shitfest, his eyes roam the room once more almost neurotically.

 

For some odd reason, his phone is on his desk. It’s in pieces.

 

“...the hell?” He snipes to himself. Why the hell is his phone broken?

 

Before he can get up to try and sleuth, Deadpool is zipping back into the room.

 

“Surprise!” They wiggle a garishly red sweatshirt around. “I nabbed this before I left, since, y’know, I figured I’d celebrate finally finding the clothing aisle I _knew_ was somewhere around that block, and since you were freaking out and all, I got you a present!”

 

Peter stares blankly at the sweatshirt. It’s official Soup merchandise. It’s ugly and unconventional. “Did you even pay for that.”

 

Wade’s smile turns strained.

 

Peter clears his throat. “I, um… thank you.” He accepts the shirt and fingers the fabric a bit. A popular soup brand name punches him in his eyeballs with its brightness.

 

...He kind of loves it. Not that he’s ever going to admit that out loud.

 

“Thanks,” he says again, only this time with a different emotion, and Wade nods as if they understand.

 

Peter spends a couple of long minutes staring at the desk opposite his bed. It’s weird that the desk chair isn’t at the desk. He rubs repetitive circles in the sweatshirt fabric in his hands.

 

Wade’s hand is suddenly there, too, placed on top of both of his like the warm bottom of a plate.

 

He looks over, but doesn’t meet their eyes. They don’t seem to mind, since they’re staring down at where two pale hands meet one meaty red hand.

 

“It’ll pass,” they mumble. Then, louder, with more of their usual energy, “It’ll pass like a motherfucking kidney stone, but it’ll pass.”

 

For a lack of anything else to say, Peter nods. The hand retracts, and Wade loudly tosses the desk chair back over to the desk, not even flinching at the disruptive noise after all the dramatic silences.

 

Oh, _Wade._

 

“I’m gonna go start on those sadness brownies,” they mention with zero remorse, “and then I’m gonna come in here and give you the house phone so that you can call in or whatever. Do people still call in? Or is it like, send your brainwaves of ‘fuck you I’m staying home today’ over the collective internet hivemind? Whatever, you can call; you’re not too good to use a landline.”

 

Before Peter can so much as breathe inwards, Wade’s out of the room and is stomping around in the house, presumably somewhere in the kitchen.

 

Wade miraculously remembers to come back and give Peter the house phone, offering no explanation for Peter’s broken cellphone other than something mumbled that sounds close to “idk it was like that when I got in here.” It’s highly suspicious, and the only reason Peter doesn’t automatically jump to the conclusion of _‘Wade stepped on my damn phone’_ is because Deadpool isn’t doing any of their telltale guilty noises.

 

And so Peter continues with the droll task of calling in, emailing his professors, and staring at the wall some more. Fresh air filters in through his open bedroom door, eventually carrying the scent of brownies.

 

Deadpool must be thinking that Peter had a delusion. A violent hallucination or flashback that summoned the smell of cinnamon and someone worth screaming and passing out about behind his bedroom door.

 

Peter sighs deeply, placing his heavy head in his hands, inadvertently burying his face into the sweatshirt he can’t seem to let go of.

 

Maybe he has to start considering that he _does_ have hallucinations. What happened last night wasn’t normal – plus, he can’t seem to place exactly when and how he grieved for Aunt May, much less parsed through her sudden unexplained death and his subsequent boot into uncertain poverty.

 

For one brutal moment, Peter considers that maybe Deadpool’s crazy is rubbing off on him, and that it’s all their fault.

 

Then he scoffs at himself bitterly. No, that’s not it. Plus that’s a really shitty thing to think.

 

In any case, it couldn’t have been just a simple trick of the mind – why else would the cats have reacted the way they did? Unless that was also a part of the delusion…

 

Peter eyes his locked window, the one that seemed to have burned his hand with frostbitten fury. It has too many scratch marks at the corner, where the cats slip in through a hole in his screen when his window is open.

 

Standing, still clutching the sweatshirt, Peter wobbles over to his bedroom door and pulls it to. There’s scratch marks on the inside bottom, and even on the floor. Deep ones.

 

He glances at his nails. They look as shitty as they’ve ever been, but not harmed.

 

Deadpool must have noticed this – they’re not stupid. They even grabbed Peter’s hands in a move that he’s now beginning to consider less comforting and more calculated on their part. They were the ones to mention the scratch marks in the first place, and Peter was the one to awkwardly not mention them at all in response.

 

Peter closes his eyes. Stands with his forehead pressed to the door, pressure stimming.

 

He slips the sweatshirt on over his nightshirt, opens the bedroom door again, and pauses, not yet stepping out.

 

He feels like he should call Harry, but…

 

The cellphone on the table is still broken.

 

Peter climbs back onto his bed and opens up his laptop, re-opening his email program and picking up the house phone.

 

Memorized the number of Harry’s facility, he did not, but he _does_ remember where he got the number to call Harry in the first place.

 

There was this kindly-worded email amongst all the others of Funeral Homes and insurance companies trying to make a buck off his aunt dying. He remembers hesitantly clicking on it, and then being glad that he did.

 

It was from a woman named Marsha, who was a nurse at Harry’s holding facility slash hospital. She said she wanted to contact Peter just to make sure he was updated on Mr. Osborn’s condition and health, and, _oh,_ how lonely Harry was, how mournful and repentant, and if only there was a way for Peter to contact him…

 

Peter took the bait. He emailed back in a tizzy, inquiring as to how he could contact Harry. Despite everything, he still remembered being Harry Osborn’s best friend for years. Even though the guy went green and tried to murder him (and succeeded in basically murdering Gwen, which is something Peter tries not to think about his involvement in these days.)

 

Marsha replied ecstatically, sending him a number to the desk she worked at. She said that she could sneak Harry the phone even though they technically weren’t supposed to be treating patients like favorites.

 

Now, however, Peter is mentally cursing at himself. He never quite researched the place Harry was staying at, nor did he have the forethought to ask Marsha during one of their numerous rule-breaking calls. He was just so relieved to be talking to Harry, one of his last friends, that he must’ve glossed it over in his mind. Must’ve thought that keeping the calls hidden and short was more important than having pertinent information.

 

Even worse – he had to delete his old email and get a new one ever since May died. The emails of phishing scams and companies trying to get him to buy something or another while expressing their plastic condolences had tried on him for barely a few weeks before he cracked and wiped the slate clean.

 

Seems as if he wiped the slate a little too hard; Marsha’s emails containing the facility’s number are gone.

 

As he tries to breach the internet for information, he comes up with a whole lot of squat. For some reason, he cannot remember a single concrete detail of the facility’s name or location – only that it was holding Harry Osborn and had a nurse named Marsha, no last name given.

 

He doesn’t even think he ever asked where this facility _i_ _s,_ what its hours were. He just called when he wanted, and Marsha always picked up, and he never found that weird. It could be stationed on the moon for all he knows. He could really just punch himself right now.

 

He stumbles across a place called ‘Lyle House’ in Buffalo, but it got shut down years ago once it came to light that it was abusing and even killing mutant children under the guise of helping kids with mental illnesses rehabilitate. Unfortunately, that was one of his only hits on the subject, and Harry was neither a child nor a mutant.

 

A sense of grief overcomes Peter as he closes his laptop and sits back on his pillow, fingering the house phone.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s closed his eyes until he breathes in the distinct and _up-_ _close_ smell of brownie, eyes snapping open to see Wade leaning over him with food stuck up under his nose.

 

“Soup looks good on you,” they tell him, “aww, were you crying? Does soup move you that much -”

 

“ _No.”_ Peter snatches the brownie out of their hands, and they giggle at him as he tears his teeth into it. It’s goddamn _delicious._ “Why do you always think I’m crying? Trust me, you’ll _know_ when I’m crying – the whole first floor will be flooded, and you’ll have to scrape me up off the couch from your papier-mâché boat.”

 

Wade snorts and looks down at him with an expression he can’t place, so he shuffles his butt until his feet reach the floor, standing up. Except then this puts him closer to Wade than he’d like to be, so he ends up staring resolutely at their feet. They’re both wearing mismatched socks.

 

“Do you wanna watch a movie? I’ve got a hankering for Disney something fierce right now. Need me some sing-alongs; they’re good for the soul.”

 

Peter slowly looks up at Wade from under his hooded lids, half a brownie still hanging out of his mouth from where he used both hands to scoot off the bed as he nods.

 

“Baller.”

 

They watch Princess And The Frog while Peter’s curled up on one end of the couch and Wade’s sprawled on the other, hoarding the plateful of brownies so that, if Peter wants one, he has to crawl all over their legs to come get it.

 

With the way Wade grunts unhappily at the interruptions, Peter doesn’t think they planned it like this. They’re just bad at admitting when they’re wrong.

 

Peter’s not going to admit – even to himself – that he’s secretly missed the physical contact they both reluctantly partake in.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

 

Peter gets sent a new phone from Stark within a week, which he _didn’t ask for_ and is _mighty pissed about_ because this means that either Deadpool saw that Peter’s phone was made by Stark and called the billionaire themself or that Stark is monitoring Peter via the phone and automatically knew when it got broken.

 

Either way – Peter spends a little bit of time glaring at everyone and everything, including his Schrodinger’s Guilty roommate, who honestly takes his moody, accusing looks like a champ.

 

It’s no surprise when Stark uses said gifted (and _spying)_ phone to call Peter one night right after he’s gotten home from a quick and easy patrol. He’d actually been looking forward to half-watch the news on the couch while he does his homework, but it turns out Deadpool’s already there.

 

Crying about a movie.

 

Given, it’s The Land Before Time, but Peter really did not expect this.

 

After staring at Wade for a stunned bit, Peter has a moment of clarity, shuffling into the kitchen and coming back out with their bag of mini rainbow marshmallows.

 

He dumps them all over Wade’s chest, which is hiked up near their face because of the way they’re crunched up sadly on the couch.

 

They stick their tongue out and ardently consume the powdery treat with a lizard-like disposition.

 

Peter considers this a win.

 

And then his phone rings.

 

Dammit. Win ruined.

 

Peter sullenly drops the marshmallow bag next to his feet in the kitchen, ignoring the despondent noises coming from his housemate as he reluctantly answers the call from the phone’s creator.

 

“Hey, kiddo,” says the guy to the twenty-two, almost twenty-three year old. Peter rolls his eyes. “Sorry to interrupt your no doubt scintillating night, but I’m going to need you to come down. Our old buddy Deadpool is causing trouble, but we - ‘we’ being the big boys in the fancy tower – already tried to approach him and he skedaddled. Think you can help us get a lasso or a leash or something? A nice butt wiggle or two that might make him come running back?”

 

“Uh...” Peter looks over at Wade. Wade who is Deadpool. Wade who is Deadpool who is definitely not ‘causing trouble’ somewhere on the town, “No, he’s not. Like, I promise you, he is not causing trouble.”

 

There’s a lull on the other line where Tony takes a deep, fortifying breath. Peter’s almost proud of inducing these emotions in him. “Kid, where are you right now? Or maybe I should be asking – where is _he?”_

 

“He’s on the couch watching The Land Before Time… possibly crying.” Peter turns around from where he’s half-leaned against the kitchen’s opening wall. “Yea. Yea he’s crying again. I just got done dumping a bunch of marshmallows on him so that he’d stop, but he’s all out of marshmallows and Littlefoot’s family just died.”

 

Wade lets out a soft piercing keen that has Peter automatically placing a hand on his heart, but then he quickly removes it with a heated face, turning back around.

 

He justifies his slip of the tongue with a weak ‘if not now, when?’ If Tony can spy on him with the phone and can technically track down Peter Parker or call Spider-Man to do his bidding anytime he wants to, what’s stopping Iron Man from figuring out Wade Wilson and Peter Parker live together?

 

Another awkward lull as Tony no doubt weighs his options of attack. “Are you two… friends?”

 

“Hold on,” Peter says into the phone, laying in on his shoulder as he carries the marshmallow bag over to Wade again. “Wade, are we -”

 

Wade makes a sad noise.

 

Peter sprinkles more marshmallows on him. “Wade, are we friends?”

 

The mercenary temporarily ceases mouthing tiny marshmallows of fun colors in order to look sideways at Peter in confusion. Once he notices the phone in Peter’s hand, he bellows, “Oh yes, the BESTEST OF FRIENDS!”

 

Peter, a little smug now, says, “’Kay, thanks,” and walks past the couch over into the hallway, bypassing the stairs (he’s still a little too afraid to go up them just yet) in his trek to his room, closing the door softly.

 

“Do I even want to ask what you’re doing with that brute?” Tony asks in that voice that’s bordering on fatherly, but never quite hits the correct notes for it. “Weren’t you the one advocating for his, humph, ‘arrest’ not too long ago? What happened to that, did he wave his no-rules friendship in your face again and you caved… again?”

 

Peter's grown to hate phone calls with Tony these days. “That- that was a bad time for me to be making decisions, and you know it! And, it wasn’t like _that,_ we, we um…” Peter runs a nervous hand through his hair, gets it tangled, and presses his shoulder into the wall under his window in embarrassment, “we maybe accidentally started living together?” He ignores Tony’s incredulous _“how the hell did you manage that!?”_ “As Peter Parker and Wade Wilson, at first. I had- I had no idea it was _Deadpool,_ we’ve never like… Told each other our names, I just assumed he had a secret identity too.”

 

“Yea, apparently not.” Tony breathes loudly into the receiver again. “Well… Fuck. You know that if you ask, I will get you out of there, right? There might not exactly be a membership card waiting for you, but there’s plenty of rooms in the facility; color me surprised you didn’t accept the offer months ago. It’s a no rent, no bills kind of situation – I thought kids loved that kind of thing these days.”

 

Peter almost laughs. It’s not because he’s happy. Stark’s “come live under our thumb so you can get treated like a child 24/7” feels less like a generous opportunity and more like the chain being jerked around his neck once again. “We’ve been living together for, like, over six months now. I found out who he was within a _week._ It’s fine, we’re- we’re fine.”

 

“Fine. Alright. Good. Well then I’ve got a proposition for you.”

 

Oh, boy.

 

“Keep an eye on him. I’m not saying you haven’t already been doing this, but – we _did_ see Deadpool dancing around tonight, curdling milk and eating babies and the whole shebang. Seemed like a run-of-the-mill marbles dropping, if you catch my drift. And we’ve all agreed that you’re our best bet and tipping him back to sanity – or at least as close as a guy like that can get.”

 

Peter’s never really had a reason to yell as Peter Parker, and he’s been automatically lowering the voice of Spider-Man for years, so it surprises him with how much is voice can crack and fade randomly when he gets emotional.

 

He still does it though, like… If he’s gonna yell at Tony Stark, why not go all the way off?

 

“Who the hell is ‘we’ in the ‘we’ve agreed?’ Since it apparently doesn’t involve me,” Peter accuses. “Because, like, you all throw me at Deadpool so fucking often and yet it never turns out the way you want it to, so then you get mad at the both of us – sorry, s’cuse me, ‘disappointed’ - when all I’m trying to do is keep people safe and keep Deadpool as mentally stable as possible, but I can’t do that when the ‘we’ of you all keep creating circumstances where me and him both fight, and then you get all pissy at me when it doesn’t work out _because_ we fight? It can’t be both ways, Tony!”

 

“Well then maybe you should stop trying to associate with him and this wouldn’t happen.”

 

Peter scowls. _“Well then maybe_ you all should stop threatening to ‘put him away forever’ every time I say I won’t deal with him anymore! I’m, like, basically fucking morally obligated to help and make sure that _doesn’t happen_ because you all are so happy campy with abusing Deadpool’s powers and then _‘out of sight, out of mind’_ ing him when he’s just as psychotic as he’s always been!”

 

“It’s been proven time and time again that he’s more stable when he’s in close contact with you. It doesn’t have to be in the positive sense. Can you blame us for throwing our only fighter into the ring that we know can get a few good hits in -”

 

“Because you only see this ending in one of two ways, right?” Peter breaks through, “Either I’m his honest friend, and he’s a regrettable ‘alright,’ or I’m not, and he’s the monster that gets killed at the end of the story. Except all you’ve got is normal bullets and this is a werewolf, or a vampire, or some other crazy terrible creature of the night that needs silver bullets -”

 

“And the only silver bullet doesn’t want to get in the gun and do it’s duty.”

 

“ _It’s not my ‘duty’ to kill Wade!_ Fuck – it’s not even my ‘duty’ to _be friends_ with him, or, or _defend_ him, or _control_ him, or any of that other shit you consider ‘getting in good hits!’ Respecting him as a person enough to _still treat him like a person when he does something wrong_ is just the decent thing to do! Something that you’ve seemed to have lost sight of over all these years of being top dog!”

 

Tense silence.

 

Peter breathes huffily against the glass of the window, fogging it up and finger-drawing a couple of tiny mad faces while he waits.

 

Three… two… one…

 

“So, it turns out was just an illusion, or somebody pretending to be Deadpool.”

 

Peter sighs in relief, but isn’t quite fulfilled in his anger yet. Of course Tony moves on to the ‘important stuff’ as if he’s never said anything worthwhile.

 

“We think that, whoever they were, they must have been trying to lure one of the two of you out,” Tony continues. “They’ve only done this in Queens as far as we’ve seen. Going by this logic, they don’t know you no longer have a home base in Queens.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. He’ll get to how the Avenger seems to already know where he does and does not live later. “Wait, so they’ve done this before? And you didn’t think to mention it to the either of us? Is Deadpool aware that someone’s out there impersonating him? I’m sure he’ll know what to do – it’s happened to him before.”

 

Tony only laughs, as if Peter’s said something dangerously funny. “I’ll give you the address of where they were spotted, but don’t worry about it. If we find anything new, we’ll call you.”

 

The call ends as most conversations have – with Tony self-assured that he’s got Peter Parker and Spider-Man wrapped around his finger.

 

Peter’s scooping a stressed hand down his face when he exits his room, nearly bumping into Wade, who seems to be going into their own room.

 

“Whoa, hey, everything kosher on your end?” Wade’s sniffing up snot, yet looking none worse for wear, “You sure were on that call for a while. Who was it? Where do they live? Am I being nosy?”

 

Peter feels his heart beat faster for a ridiculous reason that he isn’t going to acknowledge. “Yea, yea, it’s fine – it was my… my boss.”

 

“You yell at your boss like that?”

 

Now his heart’s going wild for a totally different reason.

 

“Good for you! Glad I’m not the only one getting yelled at here!” They praise, looking strangely happy about all this. “I’ve met that guy – he seems like the type you’ve gotta yell back at just to get through his thick skull about something. Or maybe to get through his thick mustache...”

 

Peter feels suspicion. “You’ve met Jameson? When- when was this happening?”

 

They smack their lips and turn considering eyes towards the ceiling. “Oh, about two years or so ago when I was snooping around for some candid spider photography. The Bugle was the only place with shots worth a shit, so kudos for that – you basically carried that place by yourself.” A pause. “So, can I have some candid Spide-”

 

“No.”

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

_Swipe._

 

Miss.

 

_Swipe._

 

Miss.

 

_Pap!_

 

Fucking finally.

 

A lopsided Deadpool sticky note gazes innocently up at Peter, who twists his lips down at it in response.

 

So what if it took him several tries to stick the note onto the tupperware because his hands are shaking? This is normal.

 

Everything’s super normal.

 

It’s _so_ _normal_ that, in his mentally vibrating haze, he doesn’t hear how Deadpool is standing uncommonly close, calling his name a couple of times in quick succession before humming and going quiet, silently following him as he confusedly shuffles from kitchen to living room to bathroom.

 

Peter doesn’t fully understand why he’s in the bathroom, exactly, but the window is open, and a car honks its horn somewhere that’s probably actually really far off but, to him, sounds like it’s about ready to come Jersey Sliding right into his face. He hisses uncomfortably and fumbles to shut the window.

 

As he turns around to mosey in some other direction for no discernible reason, he once again can’t quite hear Wade trying to speak at him.

 

He might mumble something back, but then suddenly he’s in his closed room, and he’s opening the window a crack because there’s a cat pawing at the screen.

 

He could really use a cat right now.

 

Or two, or three, or four, because they’ve all come dancing into his room one by one. Especially little Vesta, who’s been as energetic as possible ever since she’s been able to eat daily meals and have somewhere to sleep at night.

 

Mooni hops up onto the bed that Peter doesn’t remember collapsing onto, and they look like they’re about to start whining, and Peter has enough clarity in the moment to understand that that’d be a bad thing to happen, so he goes and collects a water bottle and the kitten milk powder he bought just for them.

 

Since he’s been storing water bottles under his bed like a squirrel, he mixes a little bit of an unopened one with the powder packet in the baby bottle with the nip for the kitten to mouth the milk out of, stirring it with a glass spoon from his chem class (accidentally stole it from the lab due to some Vulture shenanigans, don’t ask.)

 

Mooni is antsy, and mutters excited kitten noises that distract Peter momentarily with their soft sound. It’s so calming that he can almost feel himself gently drift away from his impending sensory overload that’s been building ever since he got home from his morning classes today, which is a good thing, because he still needs to go into work for a few hours later this afternoon.

 

Unfortunately, he’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice a new cat haphazardly shoving itself through the window until it’s too late, and he’s got a face full of flying fur.

 

Peter screams, because what else is there to do.

 

“ _Ow!”_ He vocalizes the pain of having the heaviest cat he’s probably ever encountered kamikaze itself into his shoulder, raking its claws across his neck in the same motion. _“How the hell did you get in here!?”_

 

It’s a valid concern; Peter’s pretty sure this giant orange cat’s magnificent girth is bigger than the entire screen hole.

 

Once again, he isn’t allowed much time to collect himself before something else big and exciting happens.

 

This time it’s Deadpool slamming open his door with a vague look of panic or concern or maybe indigestion on their masked face (which has always been unfairly emotive.) It’s really a toss up between the three.

 

Peter’s caught with his metaphorical pants around his metaphorical ankles, standing there half-hunched over with a mostly un-spilled bottle of kitten milk in one hand, the other hand clutching at a bloody neck.

 

Now if only the cats covering his room were metaphorical, too.

 

Wade seems as stunned to silence as he is. They hardcore glare at Vesta, who is frozen in a way that she must think is unnoticeable.

 

Peter’s only got one idea out of all of this, and he’s pretty sure nobody’s going to like it, least of all him.

 

He does it anyway.

 

“ _Scatter!”_ He yells, lobbing the open bottle at Deadpool’s face, soaking the mask in powdered milk. Cats shoot out of the room and into different sections of the house like little multi-colored fur bullets.

 

“ _Piss!”_ The mercenary stumbles. “No, wait – _milk!”_

 

Forethought be damned: Peter launches himself, feet first, at the temporarily milk-blinded Deadpool, managing to wrap one leg up around their shoulders and the other lands somewhere bunched up against their ribs as the combined weight sends them stumbling backwards until collapsing somewhere near the middle of the semi-circle.

 

Peter has a mere second to wonder and hope that none of the cats were crushed in that fall before Wade lets loose an enraged shout and grabs at him where he’s half-perched, half-sprawled across their upper torso.

 

“And I assumed that today would be _boring!”_ They manage to shout, trying and almost succeeding in throwing Peter off as they buck their body and dig their fingers first into his ribs, then into his legs when he proves to be too tenacious to simply shake off.

 

“Assumptions make an ass out of you ‘n me!” Peter retorts, smacking his hands against the floor next to Wade’s head for some leverage. A cat skitters by, yowling. Several of them are yowling, actually.

 

Peter takes a wild second to remember how great it is to have no nosy neighbors.

 

“I can’t believe that I thought you were actually in-” They grab two big fistfuls of the meat of Peter’s thighs and lift him for a startling second of weightlessness, _“-trouble!”_

 

Peter’s back slams into the wooden floor, and the air leaves his lungs violently, but he’s used to this more than Deadpool knows, so his instinctive reaction is to twist his lower legs around Wade’s neck and squeeze, keeping them from moving anywhere.

 

“Is that- _gah!_ \- why you decided to _invade_ my _privacy?”_ Milk drips from Wade’s mask onto Peter’s face, barely missing his eyes. He needs a solution for that, or else he’s going to be milk-blinded as well, and then he’ll probably lose.

 

“Is that why you decided to invite _vermin_ into this house for _god knows how long!?”_ Wade jerks their body backwards, and almost succeeds in pulling Peter with them once again, but he cheats, sticking his hands to the floor with micro-hairs. He takes the risk, knowing Wade can’t exactly see him doing so right now.

 

Vesta sprints past like a ghostly grey tease, yodeling her particular cat song. Deadpool reaches out an arm to swipe at her.

 

Oh, hell no.

 

In one of his most intricately _bullshit_ moves yet, Peter struggles out of his second layer shirt in a couple of quick jerks, utilizing the way Deadpool continues to bodily lift him from the floor in order to complete his strategic dis-robing faster. Then he hastily wraps the shirt around the head hovering over his, tying it tightly in the back with the sleeves.

 

“ _Jesus ball-gagging penis!_ _”_ Comes the muffled expletives. “This feels disgusting as shit, I just want you to know that -”

 

He abruptly releases Wade’s neck from his legs, shoving them away by planting his feet on their chest and pushing.

 

He leaps upward, knees crashing against the floor as he hastily stands and begins running through the house.

 

In what feels like almost no time at all, angry boots follow him.

 

Peter chances a look behind himself, and he’s nearly upended by how a now maskless Wade screeches past him, arms akimbo, nearly slamming into the front door as they block his way out. He dodges by a hair.

 

With a strangled scream-laugh, Peter braces himself on the floor with a hand as he almost falls from the slipperiness of his socks, sprinting into the living room and using the couch as something bouncy to jump off of, once again dodging Deadpool’s fingertips by mere inches.

 

Wade lets out an explosive sound that’s followed up by what is most likely their body rapidly colliding with said couch with a mighty _thunk._

 

Peter’s eyes move from the kitchen door (which he had planned to run out of) over to the indentations in the wall next to the table.

 

If Deadpool didn’t already know about the secret staircase, then they’re definitely going to find out about it now.

 

Feeling cheeky, Peter skids to a stop and twists on the heels of his feet, sticking a shot of web to the hidden door and pulling, deftly winding the web up into his hands and crushing it into a minuscule ball he drops to the floor and will pick up later. Then, he bounds up the stairs.

 

For some reason Peter can’t find himself to care about right now, Deadpool seems to be the most frantically loud about this over everything.

 

“ _Peter!_ Wait, wait, wait, wait -” Wade calls, also slamming their hip into the table as they hurriedly follow Peter up the steps, “Fucking _wait a second -”_

 

Peter opens the door leading upstairs, fearlessly taking a breath now that he knows that the place is devoid of cinnamon (though, funnily enough, it now smells like common ‘clean linen’ air spritz. Go figure.)

 

The sound of heavy footfalls and wordless, frustrated shouting spurns him on as he makes a flash decision in opening the door in front of him, haphazardly throwing himself into the room and hoping that perhaps it’s connected to other rooms on the upper floors.

 

He’s immediately blindsided by the scream of his spidey-sense, a shadowy figure lunging at him, and the abrupt darkness of the dusty room.

 

The figure grunts as they collide, its slick-sweat hands grappling with a startled Peter’s arms and head and forcing him backwards into a wall as it digs sharp nails into the injury on his neck, choking him.

 

“Don’t you dare put your hands on him!” Deadpool thunders into the room, “I just got that roommate, and he’s perfect – I’m not hunting for another!” Arms twist around Peter’s stomach as he’s violently ripped away from whoever smells of perspiration and blood and other grossness, feet leaving the floor. “Do you know how much shit he deals with for me!? Go sit back down or else- _Augh,_ don’t run! I hate it when they run -”

 

Without first letting go of Peter, Deadpool sidesteps and clotheslines the would-be escapee, sending them down to the floor with a crunch and a groan.

 

“Ew, you’re all delicate and shit,” Wade complains as they drop a shaken Peter to the floor. He stumbles over to where the most light is coming through, intent on leaving, but his hands meet billowing cloth instead. “It’s like holding a dog. Have you ever held a dog before? It’s a nightmare, they feel like paper towels wrapped around a birdcage.”

 

Peter rips the sheet down from the wall, flooding natural light into the room from the previously covered window.

 

He whips around, breath unsteady as he takes in the scene.

 

A chair. Frayed rope bonds trailing from said chair across the floor leading towards the body sprawled, bloody and moaning. Deadpool sitting on said body, casual as can be as they blather on about how to carry different animals.

 

“- and then this lady was like, ‘Don’t hurt little Tito!’ and I was like, ‘bitch, this _bitch_ just took a chunk out of my hand!’”

 

“Wade, Wade, Wade!” Peter waves his arms around, “Stop! What is this- what is- you have a- a- in our second floor -”

 

“Breathe,” they tell him in what they must think is a reasonably placating tone.

 

Peter is, predictably, not placated.

 

“ _Don’t tell me to breathe!”_ He fumbles around his neck lightly, hissing at the deepened cat scratches. No doubt some bruising from being _randomly choked_ _i_ _n his own home._ Goddammit. “How long have they been up here!? _Why_ are they up here!? What the fuck makes you think you can just- just do this shit -”

 

“They’ve been here a couple of days now.” Deadpool, infuriatingly, does not sound concerned or contrite at all.

 

God _fucking_ dammit.

 

“ _Excuse me!?”_

 

“Well, sweetie – while you were a-snoozing in your bed all angelic-like, somebody tried to come enact some sweet, sweet murdering revenge on me, probably by doing unspeakable things to you eventually. Now, since I’m a nice person, I decided not to worry your little job-and-college butt over it, and took matters into my own hands.” They wave said hands to the person trapped under their own butt. “Hence the double-oh-seven.”

 

Peter breathes in through his nose. The smell of unwashed human isn’t unfamiliar, but it isn’t exactly pleasant. He reaches over and unlatches the window, pushing it open slightly.

 

There’s more bloodstains on the floor. To the naive eye, it would’ve looked like somebody’s old chocolate or wine stains from years ago – Granny finally had that stroke, fell and spilled her soup, and nobody cleaned it up until days later.

 

But Peter knows better.

 

“No,” he says. “No, okay? These- these bloodstains, there are too many of them. Some of them are old. And,” he flails his arms in the general direction of the room’s door, “and the- those _stupid air_ _fresheners_ you put everywhere! Those were to hide the smell of human decay and torture! I can even smell _more_ air fresheners in the hallway!”

 

“Well, now, nobody’s died up here in probably the past couple hundred years -”

 

“ _You’re not slick!”_ Peter yells. “You- I can’t believe you’d _do_ this -”

 

“I didn’t do it while you were home!” Deadpool throws their arms into the air, as if _Peter’s_ the unreasonable one. “Besides this one, I mean. Gimme a pass on this one, they snuck up on me -”

 

“ _That doesn’t fucking matter!”_ Peter points a hand at the person on the floor whose breathing has turned wheezing. “This is _terrible,_ okay!? It’s just _awful,_ and I can’t believe you’d bring this into- into _our apartment!_ ‘The second floor is under construction’, _my job-and-college ass!_ You’ve been stalling so that you can bring people up here to get your kicks!”

 

“ _Hey!”_ Deadpool interrupts. They actually sound angry now, instead of disaffected. “I’m not getting any ‘kicks’ out of this, sugar. It’s just cold hard business for me, and if that business includes at least trying to keep you out of this and safe in the middle of the night? _Heh,_ guess which option I’m picking. You can at least _manage_ to be disgusted _and_ grateful, you know what I’m saying?.”

 

Peter cools somewhat. His odd hours as Spider-Man are most likely to blame for him being so out of the loop – he could’ve been out on the town swinging when this person broke into the house.

 

Wade busting into his room because he shouted makes an unfortunate amount of sense, now.

 

Doesn’t make _this_ any less reprehensible.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, getting caught in the usual unbrushed tangles. “Well, you’re going to have to do this ‘cold hard business’ somewhere else – or never again, preferably. I’ll let you off the hook this time, but all those other times? Whether I was here or not, they’re still on your ledger.”

 

He gets a derisive snort for his efforts.

 

Well, he tried.

 

“Sure thing, peach,” responds the mercenary as they stand up and haul their captive upwards, seemingly unaffected by the person’s groan or Peter’s disturbed face.

 

“Oh, god- _call somebody_ to pick them up and take them to the police.” At Deadpool’s banal stare, he shrugs violently. “Or _something!_ Just- get them out of this house! Get them some medical care and some jail time for breaking and entering! I don’t care!”

 

Peter does care. He cares a lot, actually.

 

“Wait,” he sighs.

 

“Yessir.” Deadpool spins back around, dragging the unfortunate body with him.

 

“...Thanks,” Peter reluctantly gets out. He technically wasn’t home to be in any danger, but Wade doesn’t know that, so it’s time to pony up.

 

Deadpool says a few begrudging words that Peter’s loud mind drowns out as something important occurs to him.

 

“Also...” He carefully walks over to the person, lowering himself slightly to let them know that he’s talking to them. “Did you… happen to… void your bowels anywhere in here?”

 

The person, pointedly, says nothing, though they look awfully awkward (and bloody.)

 

Deadpool laughs. Like an asshole.

 

“Well, a couple of days is kind of a long time to be tied up in one room...” Peter defends.

 

Deadpool continues to laugh, waving a hand to the corner in the farthest spot of the room.

 

There’s a puddle of what is obviously smelly human waste.

 

...Right.

 

Wade, whilst hauling the person down the stairs, tells them excitedly, “Wow, got it all the way in the corner, huh? And the puddle’s so neat! Barely any spray. Good on you, you pissing champ.”

 

Peter stagnates for a moment, caught up in the turbulent thoughts about his godawful life, before yanking the sheets off of all the windows and opening them.

 

He halfheartedly explores the other upstairs rooms, but they’re all empty bedrooms (and one unfinished bathroom) that don’t hold his interest after today’s fiasco.

 

When he goes back downstairs, Deadpool and the person are no where to be seen. The cats are having a hey-day exploring the rest of the house, though, sniffing everything and toeing around on their little paws.

 

“I hope you’re all happy,” Peter sibilates at them. Especially at Vesta, who’s chilling on the couch like she owns the place. “There’s so much more drama in my life because of you.”

 

The fat orange cat goes tottering past, short tail stuck straight in the air so that its asshole is on full shameless display.

 

That one’s going to be named ‘Wade’ until further notice.

 

Peter sighs. Then he gets the necessary cleaning supplies to get rid of the pee and other bodily liquids from upstairs.

 

He ends up almost late for work. When he gets in there just in time, he’s forgotten to cover up the injury on his neck. He explains it away by saying that he and his roommate adopted a cat that got spooked and jumped on him, accidentally scratching him.

 

Somebody asks about the rapidly forming, human-hand shaped bruises.

 

His excuse is that the cat was very heavy.

 

His co-workers are dubious. Mr. Jameson brings him a cup of water (though Peter thinks it’s used as an excuse to trap him into a lecture on _morals.)_ The winter interns gossip

 

Peter goes home about as ruffled as when he left.

 

Things are absolutely not improved when he climbs out of his window sometime after sundown, ready to work off his lingering jittery energy as Spider-Man, only to encounter a set-up on his roof.

 

It’s the person from the attic. Tied up once again.

 

What a goddamn surprise.

 

They’re bound to the same exact chair they’d escaped from previously, only this time they’re tied up with neon bright ropes and colorful strings of light. In front of them is a large, white poster with crayon scribbled all over it in such a way that it’s hard to read even when up close, much less from several yards away.

 

‘FOR SPIDEY PICKUP SERVICE, FROM DP ;)’

 

‘Spidey Pickup Service’ is pissed.

 

The person gets the full brunt of his mood as he stomps over, roughly yanking the lights off of their body and detaching them from the chair.

 

Deadpool has no idea that he just endangered Spider-Man’s secret identity. If this person had been settled at another angle on the roof, they could’ve had a full view of Spider-Man crawling right out of Peter’s window! Which would have been horrible, since Peter was seen entering the house and Spider-Man was not.

 

Pretty on the nose and easy to figure out, even for someone who was locked in one room for days.

 

“Also,” Spider-Man mutters out loud, hefting the person up onto his shoulder, “why the fuck would he just assume that I’d even swing or parkour anywhere close to here, in this random ass broken ass apartment in Manhattan… I’d avoid this shitty place because of its ugly green roof specifically!”

 

The person on his shoulder looks ultimately surprised that Spider-Man has come for them at all, and isn’t beating them up. The two make haste towards the nearest police station, utilizing that creepy not-asylum building next door that Peter doesn't like to look at in the dark.

 

Dropping them off, Peter only sticks around long enough to say “they broke into somebody’s apartment, that’s all, gotta go bye.”

 

A longer explanation would be. Embarrassing.

 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

With a burning curiosity, Peter can only force himself to wait a few measly days before he’s out snooping at the address Stark provided him with.

 

He wasn’t counting on how Deadpool is _actually there._

 

Spider-Man’s peeking in the broken window of the three story building, tilting his head in the way he knows conveys confusion quite well even though there’s no one he’s directing it towards.

 

He can force himself to spend only a moment to consider that _maybe_ Deadpool really _is_ up to something bad, and Tony was right, but all he has to do is look at how Wade is slapping their hands against their thighs in that casually manic way as they search in odd places like behind moth-eaten curtains and under a rickety table before he abandons the idea.

 

Deadpool’s probably here on a whim as well, wondering who could possibly be impersonating him now, and why.

 

With _that_ logic’d and out of the way, Spider-Man wastes little time in falling through the window, landing on the floor in his traditional Spidey Pose (and lamenting over the fact that he has a ‘traditional’ Spidey _anything)_. “Deadpool. Fancy seeing you in this kind of establishment. You don’t mind if I grab a seat at your table, do you? I didn’t exactly call in a reservation beforehand.”

 

Deadpool jumps imperceptibly, but they expertly cover it up by leaning casually on the busted table and leering at him. “Hey, babe -”

 

The table breaks fantastically, and they fall to the floor with a surprised yelp.

 

Spidey’s had years to figure out this man, and even has had half of one living in close quarters with them, and yet they are still a baffling specimen to behold.

 

“Thanks for scrambling to help me up there, you real charmer,” Deadpool grunts, theatrically wiping dirt off of their arms as they stand, even though they both know they couldn’t give less of a shit. “Though it _is_ fancy seeing you here, Webs. Not as fancy as you were probably hoping, but I think the waitstaff is pretty cool. They’re literally all spiders and rats.”

 

Peter, who is also standing, crosses his arms. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I scared away a squatter or two coming in here. You off your game tonight, oh masterful mercenary?”

 

Deadpool snorts. “Somebody’s veteran grandpa shooting up on the first floor of an abandoned building isn’t exactly a reason to sound the alarm. What is, if you’ll excuse me discussing this during our fantabulous meal, is how _you_ people barely give me a day or two before you’re busting the accusatory n’ shit moves.” He shrugs, crossing his arms in turn. “What gives? They gonna bump up your paycheque if you bag me raw and wrigglin’?”

 

“Cool your jets,” Spidey waves them off, walking past them as calm as can be, ignoring how his spidey-sense spikes the closer he gets to them, and how they lean over him in an obviously threatening way, “I know it wasn’t you, dummy – I’m not that easy to trick.” Then, mumbled, “Even though the Avengers seem to be.”

 

And just like that, the sense of danger evaporates. Deadpool slaps his knee and laughs in a jovial fashion. “Heck yea, Spidey coming through once again! Man, I told those guys, I said to them that you weren’t somebody’s chump like that, that you’d probably fall all over yourself trying to defend me -”

 

“ _Cool your jets,”_ Peter repeats, this time with heat. “I’m just here for a looksee – no reason for all this unnecessary stuff where you open your mouth and words fall out.”

 

Deadpool salutes him. “Roger dodger. No more sounds falling out of orifices for me – if I can help it. Y’see, it was my turn to order takeout, so you know what that means...”

 

Peter groans.

 

He almost forgot the giant burrito Wade gorged on at home, which Peter was subjected to the sight of right before he left.

 

The two red-suits walk the abandoned house, neither of them expecting to find anything monumentally game-changing. Deadpool still makes a great show of bouncing around and pointing out all the ‘interesting’ stuff they found before Spider-Man got there, including a strangely shaped stain on the ceiling.

 

They both spend an embarrassing amount of time squinting up at it and guessing what could have caused it. Spidey thinks it’s the byproduct of mold damage; Deadpool predicts a gruesome murder where the head flew off and hit the ceiling in the exact blood splatter shape of a dog.

 

Deadpool begins to insist that they can “feel the onset of rain” in their bones. Spidey calls them an old man, but sure enough, when they step back outside, the air is heavy and the sky looks ready to roll apart.

 

Instead of allowing Deadpool to launch into any sort of self-satisfied, ‘I was right, therefore you must bow to me’ speech, Spider-Man turns on his heel and interrupts their big intake of breath with a, “Hey, I need to talk to you.”

 

That shut their mouth right quick. They still have time to spit out a, “Well, go on then, I’m a busy guy Spides, can’t be imagining blood-stain scenarios with you all night.”

 

Peter rubs the back of his head. Oh boy, here goes. “Thanks. For, uhh, saving my life and junk.” He sighs gustily in preparation for his least favorite part of this. “You were right – as much as I hate the way you- you killed her, I would’ve been dead if you hadn’t done something. So, thank you, Deadpool.”

 

There’s not nearly long enough of a silence afterwards. “You strain a muscle just saying that, huh?”

 

“Oh definitely, won’t be able to walk right for a week.” Thank god Deadpool can sometimes take a hint and _drop it._

 

Deadpool begins meandering down the long, connecting alleys, and Peter follows. They seem just as reluctant to fly away as he is. Then again, Deadpool would probably spend actual money to keep Spider-Man listening to them for longer than a few minutes. “Well, it’s like Toby Keith says: chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco, spit.”

 

“Goddamn country music...” Peter hisses lowly, restraining his hand from moving by itself and knocking Deadpool over the head, the infuriating piece of shit.

 

If he has to wake up at four-the-fuck-o’clock in the morning to loud ass country music being played from the living room while Deadpool sporadically does random, delusional shit around the house any more frequent than once a month, he’s going to burn the whole place down.

 

“What was that, my leggy spring roll?”

 

“Nothing.” Peter catches up so that they’re walking side-by-side for the most part. “I didn’t know you chewed tobacco, is all.”

 

“Well, I don’t, but I do find it to be a sexy trait.” They lean way too close. This reminds Peter of all the different ways he’s always hated interacting with Deadpool. “Sooo… if you ever have a hankerin’ for some chewing tobacco, I should hope that I’d be your first call when you realize you’re not as pure as the driven snow inside your head -”

 

A scant few feet ahead, something bolts from right next to a pile of rank trash. It’s a cat. Peter automatically smacks a hand onto Deadpool’s sternum, holding them there.

 

This does not go over well.

 

“Aww, do you caaare about li’l ol’ meee?” Deadpool wheedles, clasping their hands next to their face and shimmying side to side. Peter snatches his arm back. “Gonna save me from the big bad _too_ _d_ _y tat?”_

 

Peter tries to snort derisively, and fails, only succeeding in getting some snot on the inside of his mask. “As if, you Looney Toons sleazebag. I was worried for the cat.”

 

Deadpool does that thing where he cocks his head back and disappears his chin into the fat rolls on his neck, cartoonishly incredulous. “You think I’d kill a cat? Just because it’s in front of me?? Is this some kind of new low you’ve placed me at that I wasn’t aware about?”

 

Oh, fuck. Now he feels kind of guilty. “Um… I just, thought you didn’t like cats was all?”

 

“Who doesn’t like cats!?” Deadpool turns fully, bracing down on Spider-Man with arms spread wide and voice loud, “They’re, like, my favorite furry! Unless you count Squirrel Girl...”

 

Peter practically reels. Squirrel Girl? Furries? _He doesn’t actually hate cats!?_ “I… What?”

 

Deadpool nods to himself, lost in his train of thought about furries. “Yea, y’know, Squirrel Girl? She’s a furry, but, like, a real life one. Although I’m almost sure her ears and tail are real and part of some unavoidable circumstances rather than putting an animal’s fursuit on your body...”

 

Peter, vaguely feeling as if his soul has left him, can only reply with a bland, “Huh.”

 

“In fact, since you’re a _spider_ -human -”

 

Weakly, “No.”

 

Deadpool gasps loudly. “I wonder if this makes you a _scalie!_ An insectie? Insectite? Is there a word for this? I’m making a word for this. Somebody get me the internet on the phone! Yes – the entire internet. I know what I said! I’m a ‘Pool on the edge!”

 

“Please stop saying frightening words at me that I can’t understand,” Spidey begs.

 

He lost this war before it even started and he knows it.

 

Deadpool snorts, beginning to walk again while giving him a weird look over their shoulder. “Sure thing, you _dirty insectite.”_

 

As subtle as an elephant, Peter hastens to change the topic. “So, you… don’t hate cats?”

 

The mercenary does that thing where they somehow still every sound in the air for a breath as they stare. “...I’m wondering if I did something in a past life to make you think I hate cats.”

 

Frustrated, Peter mumbles with rancor, “More like on Tuesday...”

 

“You’re not the mumbler in this relationship, I am,” Deadpool decides, “don’t steal my thunder.”

 

Peter scowls so hard, he’s sure it’s visible through his mask. It must be, since they snicker at him.

 

They heave a great sigh, as if burdened by something terrible. “Anyway, because I love to indulge you – know this, praise me for this if possible – I don’t hate cats in general. I don’t even dislike them, they’re fine creatures and all. But, there’s this one fucking feline...”

 

“Ah?” Peter vocalizes eagerly before he can stop himself. Wade gets pissy if their stories are interrupted, after all, and he knows this intimately.

 

“Damn, lemme finish,” they predictably chastise. “Eager to hear about how much I hate this one cat for completely justifiable reasons, are you?”

 

He waves a lax hand as if he can banish the underlying tension of those words. “Nothing, just… keep going. I’m listening.”

 

Newly emboldened, Deadpool shows off their anger by flexing unnecessarily. “This one cat… this one PWUSSY.”

 

Peter’s sigh turns into a reluctantly amused groan.

 

“One time, I was dead in the yard, in front of my own damn apartment, and this cat comes waltzing over to shit and piss all over me! Some of it even got in my guts while they were healing over, and I swear to you I have not felt the same ever since! I’ve got cat pee fever, Spidey! Here, I’ll poke a hole, and you can suck out the venom -”

 

Before they can actually do any of that nonsense, Peter kicks a piece of trash and sends it loudly skittering across the blacktop. “Really? Sounds like that cat had good taste.”

 

“Yes, really!” They either ignore his jab or forget he said it entirely in their enthusiasm to complain. “And then this little flea bag had the audacity to come around again to beg for scraps and look at me with its ugly pee eyes!”

 

Peter, feeling defensive of his first ever pet, says, “You’re dehydrated.” When his unsympathetic comment is met with Deadpool whipping around to breathe emotionally at him, he changes his tune. _Christ._ “I meant… oh, sounds terrible.”

 

Ego stroked, they continue at an extra loud volume. “AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT’S WORSE?”

 

‘ _My poor eardrums,’_ he almost replies. “No, tell me.”

 

“Poor little Petey’s been wooed and bamboozled by this mewling spawn of satan! He’s taken it into his brood of kitlings! I’VE SEEN IT IN HIS ROOM! I think he named it Fiesta or something, which is a pretty solid cat name if you ask me, even though it’s been wasted on that mongrel.”

 

Teetering dangerously close to stunned that Wade would even _mention_ their roommate, ‘Petey’ unthinkingly corrects them, “It’s Vesta.”

 

Deadpool, thankfully too caught up in their own dilemma, flaps an irritated hand in his general direction. “Yea, yea, yea, yea, whatever. Have I told you about Petey yet?” Spidey tries not to choke. “Nobody lets me talk about Petey. Except Bob. Though, between you and me, sometimes that guy gets a little _too_ excited about things – like mashed potatoes – so I always end up lying to him about Double P just for safety’s sake.”

 

“No, you haven’t said- Uh, tell me about Petey.” His voice does not crack. It doesn’t.

 

Deadpool claps their hands together.

 

Spider-Man feels like he needs to sit down somewhere in preparation. He settles for leaping onto a brick wall and crouching idly at slightly higher than Deadpool’s height.

 

“So- wait, now don’t get mad at me!” They feel the need to preface with. “You’re probably going to get mad at me, who am I kidding. _Ookaaay,_ so it’s the guy who works for the place that takes your photo and sells it, you know? The Daily Riffraff or whatever it’s called?”

 

“The Daily Bugle,” Peter corrects with death in his voice.

 

“Whatever, ‘s shit is what it is.” Deadpool wipes a hand under their nose and sucks up snot loudly, no doubt smearing it all over the inside of their mask. Good, now that makes the two of them equally snotty. “Well, maybe it’s not _that_ shit, if Petey’s working there. It’s just his boss is an ass! I’d push that guy down some stairs, but I need him to pay Peets his money so that he can pay rent and stuff, so… Meh.”

 

“Right, of course.” Why are they like this.

 

“You’re being awfully placid...” They note. “Anyway – so, y’see, this guy’s grandma or aunt or something got murdered, right? And I knew this, so like,” they chuckle unnervingly, “I wasn’t that hard on him and stuff and, wow I just realized how bad this sounds. I test all my new roommates, comprende? To make sure they know what they’re getting in to? Well, none of them really survived longer than a week- I DON’T MEAN MURDER I MEAN oh fuck don’t you _chitter_ at me, I know you’re mad.”

 

Spidey startles. He didn’t even realize he was doing that thing he does where he makes a low noise in his throat when he’s pissed as hell and wants somebody to know how hard he’s focusing on that.

 

“The fact that you subject unsuspecting people to these ‘tests’ is cruel enough,” Peter lays into them what he’s been thinking for months now, but never really had the chance or reason to complain, “since we both know you don’t _need_ a roommate to split costs with, you’re just sad and lonely and impulsive.”

 

“That’s true, but -”

 

“But! What’s worse is that you, what, keep this person around just because he has a thin relation to me via photography?” Peter accuses, feeling Deadpool getting rankled. Well, tough titty; he’s been rankled for _months._ “And you say that you ‘went easy on him’ because his aunt was murdered? Don’t you think you should’ve just straight up turned him away in the first place if you thought he was too- too _ruined_ to handle the _full Deadpool experience?”_

 

He takes a breath, wanting to go on, but then something occurs to him.

 

Wait… murdered?

 

Peter _never_ said anything about having just lost his last remaining family member, especially not to Ms. Bland or to Wade before the first ‘trial week’ was up.

 

Deadpool _knew_ _this whole time._

 

“Were you stalking him!?” He loudly questions. “I- the official report, it said the cause of death was unknown, not that she was murdered -”

 

“Oh, it was defs’ murder,” Deadpool rumbles, cracking their knuckles. Peter’s spidey-sense spikes. “And no, I wasn’t stalking him! Too much.”

 

Peter’s going to throw up.

 

“You know what?” Spidey drops from the wall with his hands already thrown into the air, ready to stalk away. “I never should’ve asked – I never want to know _anything_ about you, and I just haven’t learned my lesson yet. Coming here, talking to you,” he releases a few huffing exclamations of wordless frustration, “it was just a fricking mistake. Goodbye, Deadpool.”

 

“No, no.” Deadpool stops him in his tracks with the proverbial equivalent of grabbing his arm. “The _mistake_ is that you always fucking forgive me after all this shit. Are the Avengers at least paying you for this now that they’ve got your identity balls twisted in their easily corruptible fists? You can tell me, sweetiepie, I won’t get too murder-y. Probably. I’ll at least give you a coupon for it.”

 

Peter whirls around, already breathless with rage. “Do you not _want_ me to forgive you? It’s so low-commitment it’s practically free! I thought that was your thing – throw yourself at Spider-Man to feel better about all the terrible stuff you’ve done, then throw your knife at him next when he isn’t exactly who you deluded yourself into thinking he’d be!”

 

“Deja-fucking-vu.” Deadpool steps closer. Spider-Man steps farther away. “Do you think yourself as that big of a hero that you can’t even handle being somebody’s villain for one measly sentence?”

 

“I’m not a -!” He almost says ‘villain’, or maybe even ‘hero,’ but he doesn’t want to get into that conversation with Deadpool right now. He doesn’t want to get into _anything_ with Deadpool anymore, actually. He’s slowly realizing that he apparently can’t keep his masked and un-masked lives separate as well as he thought if he’s giving a _memory-scrambled psychotic man_ Deja Vu. “Just- go eat cat poop, DP, seriously. I’m leaving, stop- stop trying to stall me into spending time with you, you desperate hobo!”

 

Listen. Spider-Man isn’t ‘allowed’ to cuss. He’s got to make do.

 

Deadpool releases a laugh that tickles Peter’s spidey-senses terribly. “Oki-doki, artichokie! You know you have my nuuuumbeeeer!”

 

Spider-Man, utterly lying as he attaches himself to the highest nearby building with a web and swings away, “No, I don’t!” _‘_ _I have your undershirt in one of my drawers because we accidentally mixed up clothes baskets once and I kept one thing because_ _I_ _’m a terrible person and a dirty heathen.’_

 

 _God,_ he needs therapy.

 

And also a _Wade_ _fucking_ _Wilson_ free household.

 

He slams his way into the apartment, practically ready to throw his housemate into the nearest garbage chute, only to realize that they aren’t home right now to throw down with.

 

Oh. Yea. Right. Spidey swings, Deadpool sprints at best.

 

With a sigh that practically plucks all of his energy straight from his body via his lungs, Peter slumps against the front door and lets out one long, continuous groan as he drills the back of his head against the wood (the fact that it’s _that_ shade of green haunts him in the back of his mind, causing him to detach himself from it physically earlier rather than later.)

 

First, he goes to his room and lets all of the cats out. He’d previously been keeping them sequestered in order to not step on Wade’s toes any further, but now that he knows the truth, he’s going to let specifically Vesta wander the house as her dark soul pleases more often now.

 

Then, he gets his big hoodie, his softest pants, and his fuzzy socks. Puts those on. Wallows around on his bed for a hot minute attempting to feel human again.

 

While in his room, he collects all of his favorite stim toys (yes, one is a fidget spinner. _Shut up)_ and stuffs them into his hoodie pocket as he sloughs to the kitchen to make hot chocolate.

 

He balances the hot chocolate on his head, grabs the bag of mini-marshmallows, hooks Wade The Cat up under his arms (she’s turned out to be the nicest and cuddliest, despite their first meeting), and carefully traverses upstairs.

 

In one of the upstairs bedrooms (that isn’t stained with blood) Peter’s piled a generous amount of pillows and blankets into one corner next to a window. Inside the pile is silly stuff like comforting childhood books, an MP3 player that somehow still works, and a marshmallow gun.

 

In the other corner is a cat box, because if you’re going to trap a cat in a room and force it to spend time with you, you might as well make it at _least_ a three star experience.

 

Peter shuts the door to the room, opens the window a crack, and settles into his pile of fluffy stuff.

 

Then he rocks for a good half hour, absently petting the cat and staring out the window. Sometimes he even remembers to drink his hot chocolate.

 

Instead of thinking about anything important, Peter turns the MP3 on and plugs one earbud in, opening the book about the Mesopotamian cat that leaves its home to save its family from an evil man who wants to stuff them and make them into children’s toys.

 

When Wade comes falling in the door an hour or so later, the moon would be high in the sky if it weren't for the previously bone-predicted rain.

 

Peter ignores the sounds of distress his roommate makes when they find out the house is now free range for several cats (including their nemesis cat) that are no longer prisoners of the bedroom.

 

He, unfortunately, can’t actually ignore them when they quickly and easily find out where he’s holed up, knocking on the room door several times with a, “Petey? Are you aware that there are um _vicious sewer rats_ taking over the first floor?”

 

Peter says nothing.

 

Wade, stupidly, opens the door.

 

Peter takes aim with the marshmallow gun and fires several shots at his roommate’s unsuspecting head.

 

Wade screams like they’ve been shot, slamming the door shut as (what sounds like) they throw themself down the stairs.

 

“Live with yourself,” Peter mutters unhappily, reloading the marshmallow gun and popping a few into his mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [WHY ARE YOU BUYING CLOTHES AT THE SOUP STORE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_o2hhSgfJ8)  
>  i actually reference two real books in this chapter; kudos if you can spot them. EDIT: also i apparently reference one of the LOTR movies, thanks for pointing that out.
> 
> p.s. "Vesta Fiesta" was a real cat, but she had feline leukemia, so my family put her down only like a week after I rescued her. It Sucked.

**Author's Note:**

> peter: 22, he/him demi-male intersex bi who wears whatever, just, _whatever_  
>  wade: 30, he/they genderfluid pan everything mofo, prefers femwear (even when working)
> 
> Timeline: Aunt May dies in summer. Peter goes to live with Wade in late fall, and they continue living together into early/mid spring.


End file.
